


Children of the Compass Rose

by Djehuty3



Category: Critical Role, Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: All OC Cast, Before Campaign 2, Fightscenes! Fightscenes Everywhere!, Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Started this for NaNo now we here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 60,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17020155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djehuty3/pseuds/Djehuty3
Summary: Tal Dorei is not short of heroes. This is the story of five in particular, and how they came to save the world.





	1. Sharla Ruth

** CHAPTER ONE **

** SHARLA RUTH **

The city of Kymal is not a gentle place. No news, that, no news at all, not to the hollow eyed, hollow bellied gambling addicts that stumble out of the Maiden's Wish casino, or the honest thieves waiting down alleys with coshes and knives, or the dishonest ones in the banks and government houses with fine suits and bright smiles that don't reach their eyes. Not the tired whores or bartenders who stumble off shift as the weak light of the sun tries to claw through the cold mist rolling in off the Frostweald to the south. Not to the shopkeeps and farmers. Not those few poor, foolish idiots who call themselves the town guard and report to the Margrave and know, deep in their hearts, that they do no good at all, their services bought and paid for far above their heads.

And especially not for the women now shouldering through the milling crowd at the gate. Then again, they didn't look particularly gentle either.

Avivit, the younger of the two, could not have been out of her late teens, and that at the absolute latest. Her hair (thick and vibrantly colourful) was a pale silvery white, and hung down past her shoulder blades in a rough, shaggy style that spoke of haircuts made with daggers without the aid of a mirror. Or, to be honest, any interest in aesthetics. Still, it set off the warm dull gold of her skin, and the amber of her eyes. If you didn't make eye contact, she'd strike you as beautiful.

If you did, however, you'd quickly reassess. Her eyes were calm, and still, and utterly without compassion. She could kill you, this woman, and think nothing of it but perhaps the craftsman's satisfaction in a job well done. The long and short swords hanging at her hips had the gleam of maintenance and the wear of long use. Less weapons then extensions of her arms.

Alone, she'd be terrifying. In company, though, she seemed... distant. Happy to follow orders, or at least to be led.

At least, that's what Sharla Ruth, the elder of the two women, hoped. She'd had far too many memories of what the alternative looked like.

They were a study in contrasts, seen from a distance; Where Vivi was short, broad with muscle and moved with a predator's grace, Ruth was tall and lanky, head constantly darting about to take in the world around her, hands darting from pockets to shirt to hair to satchel to jacket (black, long, patched in places with velvet or linen or silk or burlap or whatever else she'd gotten hold of, several holes, ragged as every hell in the multiverse and heavy with the dust of travel) to at last the thin black half mask that crawled up from her nose and cheekbones to coil up above her head. Where Vivi was dressed in simple travelling gear, Ruth's clothes were a manic mismatch of charms, necklaces, fabrics, garments- ankle boots bought from a merchant in Vasselheim who swore blind they'd been blessed by St. Pike of the Everlight herself, loose baggy linen trousers taken from the corpse of a Goliath herdmember, patched since then a dozen times, the coat (oh that precious coat), the mask (pure affectation, but since when was style a luxury?)- all united only by colour; black. There really were almost no similarities.

And also, Ruth was on fire and Vivi wasn't. That probably was the first thing people noticed.

Sharla Ruth was Genasi, with the lineage of the plane of fire running hot in her veins. Her skin ran from the bright silver-gold of a morning sunrise to the furious dark red of a hungry volcano. Bright _szuldar_ lines blazing white hot elemental power traced across her body, and her eyes were the flight red of the heart of stars. Where her hair should have been were high tongues of flame, reaching up to claw at the sky.

To call them distinctive would be to miss an opportunity to say unique. But Ruth was not paying attention to them. One long-fingered hand was gently wrapped around Vivi's wrist.

"Come on," she said gently, taking a turn down a side street. "Vivi. It's alright." Vivi came, face still vacant. Gods alone knew what thoughts were going through that head. Ruth tried not to worry about that, pushed it to the back of her mind, and glanced around again, searching.

She wasn't looking long when she found it; a doorway, once resplendent in marble and oak, now crumbling and untended. And beside it, a brass plaque-

_The Divine, Arcane and Druidic Society for Extra-Planar Exploration, Historical Research and Cartography_

Beneath that was a carving, deeply scored into the brass in clear, sharp strokes, of a compass rose.

Ruth reached out to brush it tenderly. "Home again, home again," she half-muttered under her breath, and then beat a clenched fist on the door.

There was a long pause. Then, at last, the door grumbled open, the hinges squealing their complaint as they went. Sharla felt an old smile at the corners of her mouth, and stepped inside, tugging Vivi behind her. She paid no attention as the door closed again, untouched by mortal hands. Same place, she thought. Same wooden floors. Same peeling white paint on the walls. Same high ceilings shrouded in cobwebs, same sideboards marked over and over by passing boots, same torches (magical, of course) flickering from wall sockets. Same front desk, a gothic monstrosity of wood and marble, the only thing still scrupulously clean.

And same face at the desk. A face that might as well have been carved out of stone, all cracks and wrinkles and deep set eyes. Pure white, with sharp black herd tattoos lingering over the jaws and skull.

A goliath's face. Bangan's face.

"Ms Sharla Ruth," he rumbled, dragging his massive bulk (still clad in an immaculate black morning suit) out of his colossal chair. "You're back again."

"Flying visit, Bangan," she replied, smiling, as she reached up to squeeze his hands. "Is Lanara in?"

"Doctor Lanara is currently interviewing for a new assistant," said Bangan. "I believe she should be free soon. Would you care to wait in the Academic's Parlour?"

"The Academic's- no, no," said Ruth hastily. "I think that might- no. I'll stay in the Explorator's bar, if it's all the same-"

But Bangan's voice rolled over hers like a juggernaut, his huge eyebrows drawing together in regret. "I'm afraid the Explorator's bar is not currently suitable for you, Ms Sharla Ruth. The last visitor brought a guest from Sigil to take a drink with him. The resultant damage was... sadly rather extensive."

Ruth winced. "It was Leo, wasn't it." It wasn't a question. Bangan still nodded. She sighed. "Can I ask who's in today?"

"I am sadly unaware who is currently using the lounge," Bangan replied, with all the serenity of a mountain post-rockslide. "However, the only current residents in the campus, beyond Doctor Lanara of course, are Mister Johen and..."

Ruth set her face into an expression of polite inquiry. Inside, she was cringing. Johen. Fucking Johen, of all people. Had she offended some god? Was there a spirit out there somewhere, some incarnation of horrible creeps that had decided to curse her eternally? Gods above. She tried not to picture his clammy hands, but the memory of his awful halitosis and desperate, nasal voice came unbidden. She could have lived with that, though, if underneath the social awkwardness he'd at least been nice. But no. She'd been stuck with his resentment, his unconsidered stupidity, and his awful, desperate affection from the moment they'd first met. He'd been obsessed with her, and there was no way to let him down gently. No way to let him down at all, in the end.

And from Bangan's expression, that wasn't even the worst of it.

"And?" She asked, bracing for bad news.

Bangan winced. "I am sorry, Ms Ruth."

" _Who,_ Bangan?"

He sighed like tectonic plates shifting. "And Ambassador Hama of the Pyrhan Ashari."

"...Oh Gods." A sledgehammer to the temple would have been kinder. A set of pliers applied to her fingernails, too, or a stiletto to the eye. Hama. The ex. The _other_ Ashari in the Compass Rose. The _official_ one too. Everlight's mercy, what had she done wrong? How, how could this get worse?

Vivi's eyes focused on Bangan, then glanced back at Ruth. "Who's Hama?"

Ah. That was how. Of course.

"No one," said Ruth, firmly. "Someone I used to know. It doesn't matter." She pulled herself out of her reverie and juggled her options. Staying in the front hall was... tempting, she had to admit. But also unlikely to go well. Bangan was a decent soul, but it wasn't completely beyond the bounds of possibility he'd stand on protocol and insist she go through. Even if he didn't, she'd still have to stand there, knowing she'd chosen to stand in what was essentially the cloakroom because she didn't want to talk to her ex.

No. That wasn't it. She didn't want to even _risk_ talking to her ex. What sort of cowardice was that? And what sort of example to set for Vivi? No. Staying out here was unacceptable. She'd have to risk it and hope like hells that no-one would be in the Academic's parlour. Maybe she'd get lucky.

And maybe pigs might fly, she thought grimly. Still. Decision made. She set her shoulders back, gritted her teeth, and smiled at Bangan. "I suppose we'll try the parlour, then."

"Yes, Ms Ruth. Shall I bring you through a drink?"

"A glass of whiskey for me," she said, nodding. "Vivi?" The girl shook her head.

"Very good. If you and your guest would just sign in." Bangan pushed the heavy register across the desk. It was a massive thing, yellowed pages bound together in huge leather covers. She took the quill he offered, dipped it in the nearby inkwell, and scratched her name.

 _Sharla Ruth,_ she wrote. _Explorator._ And then below it, _Avivit._

A long pause. Then, _ward._

The pushed the book back. If Bangan saw anything worth commenting on, he kept it to himself, waving them through the door. "Welcome back to the Compass Rose, Ms Ruth."

Ruth smiled tightly, but said nothing. Through the door, they went. Into the rambling tangle of corridors, offices and libraries, past ancient paintings sagging in their frames and vases full of limp, dying flowers, air thick with mildew and mothballs, almost entirely alone but for each other.

The Kymal campus had never been popular, or well-staffed. People preferred Vasselheim, or Ank Harel, or Port Damali- even Emon, where the buildings were only ten years old and the collection still bore scorch marks from dragon fire. Kymal was the worst combination of the wrong kind of boring and the wrong kind of interesting. You'd get stabbed in Kymal, or robbed, or go broke in the casino. You'd never start an expedition to a far plane, or take part in the experiment that'd make your mark on the Rose.

Still, thought Ruth, as at last she and Vivi arrived at the Academic's parlour, only three staff? That was unusual.

The parlour itself was exactly what you'd expect. An elderly carpet, pattern almost indiscernible. Old leather armchairs quietly slumping their way to a mildew-y death, wooden tables polished to a shine that almost hid the scuff marks and scars of poor treatment. Portraits of old academics who once revolutionised the field, now long dead. High windows onto a destitute little courtyard where a tree desperately clawed at what little light there was. A drinks cabinet full of ornate, dusty decanters and tumbler glasses.

And books. Thick, gorgeous, leatherbound books, roosting on bookshelves that fortify every wall in the room. Some things, the Compass Rose still got right.

Ruth went immediately for the drinks cabinet. One glass of whiskey probably wouldn't be enough. "Vivi- sure you don't want anything?"

"No thank you," the girl replied, eyes roaming the bookshelves with no real interest. Ruth fought down a sigh, shrugged, and poured herself a glass. She sat down in one of the arm chairs and settled in to wait.

A few minutes went by.

"Are you going to just... stand there?" She asked Vivi. The girl cocked her head in mild confusion. "I mean- you could sit down, or- if you'd rather be more comfortable."

"Harder to fight from a seated position," said Vivi, in the same serene monotone as always. "A hip draw in particular is more difficult, especially with a long sword. Further, the positioning of the available chairs-"

"You could move one," said Ruth, hopelessly.

"- does not provide adequate sightlines of the entrances and exits," Vivi barrelled on. "Given the security of the facility-"

"-campus-"

"-I cannot be sure we won't be attacked. Best therefore to be ready. Thus, a standing position."

Ruth sighed again.

"If you're sure."

"Thank you. I am."

A few more minutes passed in the following awkward silence. Maybe, Ruth thought, pregnant with hope, Lanara would be ready in a few minutes and they'd not see anyone else at all. Maybe just once.

The door creaked open. Ruth cursed herself for being stupid enough to hope.

Johen's hand, much like the rest of him, was pale, clammy and deeply upsetting to look at on any level. The man looked like some god of bent coathangers had taken human form and then delved into a career in making women uncomfortable. The instant he saw Ruth, his eyes lit up.

"Explorator," he muttered, voice whining and sharp like an icepick to the temples. Ruth pasted a smile over her rising panic.

"Johen. Hi."

"So good to see you back again. It's been too long since we've seen you here in Kymal."

"I've been busy," said Ruth, as she knocked back the Whiskey. Damn it, Bangan, where are you?

"And who is your charming guest?"

"This is-"

"Avivit," said Vivi, still blank-faced. Johen's face contorted into a pantomime of gleeful consideration.

"The Avivit? The Aasimar?"

"Johen," Ruth began.

"From the business in Westruun?"

"I was involved in Westruun, yes."

"Fascinating," said Johen, eyes gleaming. "And you've not fallen-"

"Johen." The word came out of Ruth's mouth like a whipcrack. Johen jumped. "We don't discuss that. It upsets her."

"No it doesn't," said Vivi, confused.

"Yes it does." Ruth's voice was tighter than she wanted it to be. "I'm sure you understand, Johen. Don't you?"

Johen didn't quite blanche at the implied threat. "Of course," he murmered. "My apologies. What's bought you to-"

And at last, Bangan arrived. "Ms Ruth," he rumbled. "Apologies for the delay. Doctor Lanara will see you now."

Ruth sprang out of her chair. "Thank you," she said, deeply sincere. "Um... the drink?"

"I'll bring it through."

"Thanks. Come on, Vivi."

Vivi didn't move, eyes locked on Johen.

"Vivi."

"I'll stay," she said abruptly. Ruth felt a twinge of horror stab through her gut. "I'm not sure-"

"I'll stay," Vivi repeated. "I like talking to this person."

Ruth knew that tone. There was no arguing with it, nor point in trying. Best she could hope was that Vivi wouldn't do any real damage. Johen, by contrast, could go hang. He was leering at Vivi, now, which set a nameless dread loose in the back of Ruth's head.

She'll be fine, she decided eventually. She's a big girl. And it'll only be a few minutes.

"You'll be polite, won't you?" she asked, giving in.

"Yes."

"I was talking to Johen."

Johen glanced at her, and smiled. "Oh, of course, Explorator. Your guest will be safe with me."

Ruth fought down a wince and followed Bangan out into the corridor.

"He's- gotten worse," she said abruptly. Bangan's huge shoulders sagged expressively.

"I fear so, Ms Ruth. He was always... uncomfortable in the society of women."

"I remember. Why hasn't anything been done?"

"His father was well connected. Some of those connections still hold," came the dour reply. Ruth sighed. For all she loved the Rose, some parts of it still turned her stomach.

Some parts. A memory started to stir. A chanting voice. A crackle magic. A scream.

Ruth stamped down viciously on that train of thought. No. Not now. Not ever. She loved the Rose. It had given her everything. No need to sully that with old mistakes. She set her eyes on Bangan's back and followed him.

And then, at last, the door to Lanara's office. Bangan entered ahead of her.

"Explorator Ruth for you, Doctor," he said. Lanara looked up, and smiled. It had been months, Ruth marveled, and yet still that smile. They hugged. As always, Ruth dwarfed the little half-elf doctor.

"Ruth," said Lanara. "Hold still. Let me look at you."

"Still on fire," said Ruth, half laughing.

"Oh, details. Hello. How are you? Can I get you a drink?"

"Bangan's already looking after me."

"Sit down, sit down." She waved Ruth into a chair and sat down behind her desk. Bangan had retreated in the previous explosion of affection.

"How are you?"

"Managing," said Ruth, shrugging. "Been in Tal Dorei since last time I saw you.

"Really? Aren't you going mad?"

"That's... actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Bangan shouldered through the door with a whiskey in one hand and tray with teapot and cup in the other. He set them down on the desk and left again. Ruth sipped at her glass. Lanara raised an eyebrow.

"You appear, Ruth dearest, to be beating around the bush. You don't do that, traditionally."

"I know," said Ruth, cringing. "It's just... awkward."

"Clearly. But may I suggest you remember how long we've been friends, what we've done together-"

"-I know-"

"-and more importantly, who I know you've slept with, and then decide if you're still capable of embarrassment at all?" The smile on Lanara's face was wry, affectionate and deeply cutting. Ruth gave a smile that was half-way to a wince.

"In my defence, I was drunk."

"He wasn't," said Lanara, still smiling. "Now come on. Tell me."

Ruth sipped again. "Well. You know about... the Westruun thing."

Lanara's face darkened. "Hard to forget."

"Yes. Well. After we'd... expressed our discontent," she said delicately, "someone had to look after the girl. Her guide was finally able to contact her, after all, but she didn't have any- I mean, she didn't know anything. You know? Anything Aasimar are supposed to know."

"I suppose that was rather the point," said Lanara, grimly.

"The others were heading off again pretty much immediately. I mean, Explorators, you know what we're like; it's a big multiverse out there. So I've been hanging around, keeping an eye on Vivi."

"The girl."

"Yes. Thing is, I'm getting a bit... it's just I've been here a while. And I thought, you know... since you're a Doctor, now, and the head of the campus... you might arrange for her to get... certified."

Lanara stared at her for a long moment. When at last she did speak, her voice was dry as a bone. "So to be clear, you're asking me to certify a fifteen year old, psychologically traumatised Aasimar-"

"She's seventeen."

" _psychologically traumatised Aasimar_ with no grasp of magic or, in fact, of basic morality, as an Inter-Planar Explorator for the Society because you've got itchy feet."

Ruth winced. "When you put it like that."

" _No,_ Ruth. Gods above, I'm amazed you'd even ask."

"I know, I know," said Ruth, sighing and finishing the whiskey. "I'm sorry."

"I can't play favourites like that."

"Yeah."

Lanara stared at her, then clearly decided the point had been made and poured herself some tea. "As long as we're clear."

"We are."

"Honestly, dear, what would possess you to-"

"Well I'm a little short on options, aren't I? I mean, I can't exactly leave her behind."

Lanara considered for a moment. "Given that we don't traditionally keep track of our Explorators, why'd you need me to do the paperwork? Couldn't you just... take her?"

"That's not how I do things," said Ruth, glumly. "You gotta do right by the Rose. You know that."

"Rules can be bent."

"That's what this was. But... not even trying to pass it off right... that's just-" she waved incoherently. "You know?"

"Should have been a paladin," said Lanara, smiling again. "Alright. Well. There is another option."

"Anything," said Ruth. "I'm desperate here, Lanny, anything at all."

"A few friends of mine look after girls-"

"Anything but that."

"You didn't let me finish."

"I don't need to. I'm not leaving her." There was more anger in Ruth's voice than she meant. She tamped down on it, took control of herself. "Vivi's not... bad, Lan. She's just... not been taught. Not right. And everyone she's known so far has either used her or abandoned her. I'm not adding to that. I'm just not."

Lanara sipped her tea primly. "I've never known you to be quite so... maternal."

"Oh, Gods, don't."

"Sorry." She smiled, not without sympathy. "I'm not trying to pry. It's just... this is a little out of character."

"Someone had to step up," said Ruth, simply. "No-one else was going to."

"Fair enough." Lanara reached out and patted her hand. "But if that's the case, then I'm afraid you're stuck here, dear."

***

Stuck here. Even the words sound godsawful, thought Ruth as she stalked out of the front door. Stuck here on this boring plane with nothing to do but sulk.

Behind her, Vivi watched the door close behind them. Ruth made herself calm down. She'd come back to the Academic's parlour to find Vivi demonstrating sword techniques to an unusually pale, sweating Johen and discussing how cartilage can be navigated to completely decapitate someone. That, at least, had been amusing.

"Have I made things harder for you?" Asked Vivi. Ruth crushed a wince.

"No, Vivi. Come on. Let's go find somewhere for lunch."

"Steak?"

And there it was. That hint of hope, almost childlike, that reminded Ruth why she'd stayed in the first place. "Think we can manage steak, yeah," she said, grinning. "Come on."


	2. Subtlety

** CHAPTER TWO **

** SUBTLETY **

Subtlety Emberdark started the worst day of his life with a pounding hangover. This, in hindsight, seemed in keeping with his luck. The sunlight had wormed its way through the gaps in the curtains and now seemed to be taking a deep and aggressive pleasure in stabbing him in the eyes. For all this, Subtlety still had enough presence of mine to check the bed for other residents before making a little mewling sob of pain. There were none. He mewled.

 

With that essential part of his morning routine looked after, he rolled over and inspected his surroundings. This was not Anastasia's bed, by the look of it; she'd never willingly sleep in something this small, or share any space at all with the bedbugs now colonising his back. Neither could it be Enevka's- she'd have cleaned the nameless stains from the sheets long ago- or at least tidied the clothes off the floor and sent servants scurrying away with the dirty plates and cutlery that moldered in unpleasant hotspots around the floor. It might have been Illyria's, given that the mess would upset her mother, but the grey stone walls, untouched by paint or wall paper, and the unvarnished wooden floorboards suggested poverty more than wilfully poor hygiene. No, Subtlety decided, if this room belonged to anyone, it was him; the boarding house on Tauren street. Hadn't been here in a dog's age; he only kept it at all in case of emergencies. Clearly last night had gone worse than he thought.

 

His train of thought would have carried on like this for quite a while if a sudden, godsawful surge of acid, bile and second-hand alcohol didn't come surging up his gullet and send him running for the bedpan. Some bastard had left it on the far side of the room. He made it just in time, spat out a paltry mouthful of... something foul, and then retched hard enough to send spots of colour dancing across his eyes. Gods. This was a bad morning. Even by his standards. After a few moments, he found some untapped reservoir of strength, dragged himself up to sit curled against the wall, and surveyed the wreckage of his room. The night before was a fever dream, barely remembered. He'd have to work it out now.

There was a path beaten roughly from the door to his bed. He must have come that way on his way back. He'd clearly not thought to get undressed, by the state of his shirt and trousers. An acrid stink suggested the awful tang of old vomit, but he couldn't see anything. What had he drank last night? It was supposed to be a ballet- there shouldn't have been anything harder than sparkling wine! Gods above. How had it come to this? How was this his life? He'd been a law clerk, once- the first Helltown boy to serve in the courts of Gresit. And now this. Now a... a gigolo. A charming whore for rich girls to annoy their father. A petty thief, a bar brawler, a drunk. Even his own gifts, his family's magics, he'd squandered and ignored.

 

He let himself wallow in his self loathing a moment longer, then pulled himself back to good sense.

 

This wasn't going to do. At all. If nothing else, hangovers heralded sobriety. He'd spent most of his life avoiding those. And worse, an awful suspicion was settling on his shoulders now that something had happened last night. Something bad. He strained for memory, but nothing came. Damn the booze. Damn everything. He reached up and took hold of the windowsill, dragged himself to his feet. Food. That's what he needed. Food, and water. And for that, clothes and money. Growling with the pain, he made his way to the dresser, and pulled open the bottom drawer. His work clothes were inside; silk shirts, well cut black linen trousers, somewhere else there'd be boots and-

 

Something clicked.

 

Subtlety sent a hand rooting through the dresser drawers. The awful suspicion started to cackle from its perch in the back of his head. Something was there, something that didn't belong. His hands found it at last, pale, soft, beautiful; that was a garter.

 

That was Olga's garter.

 

He hadn't. He hadn't, he couldn't have been so fucking stupid. Olga Nolyevka? The Duke's own daughter? That was the kind of-

 

No. No, stop. Stop, now. Be sure, first. He took the offending item out and examined it carefully. White silk. Good stitching. That elastic they'd started selling in Emon, imported across the Ozmit sea at great expense. And there, on the inside, a monogram.

 

O.N.

 

Oh shit.

 

Subtlety dropped to the floor again like a puppet with its strings cut, and knew he was utterly fucked. Ever since he'd left Helltown, he'd made his way in the city of Gresit by being exactly the right sort of disreputable. He wore good clothes and talked like a lord's son, went to the right theatres and concerts and recitals- and provided exactly the right kind of distraction to the daughters of middling lords and ladies. No-one powerful enough to cause any real fuss. The daughters would play with the pretty devil boy until they got bored, and then he'd leave before the servants threw him out- with jewelry good enough to be worth something, but cheap enough the girl's wouldn't notice its absence. It was a careful knife-edge to walk, but it provided a far, far better standard of living than any other tiefling in Gresit lived. And all it asked of him was knowing his place. The right lords- just rich enough to be worth dallying with, just poor enough to keep him from harm.

 

The Duke of Gresit was not the right lord. He had power. Real power. And he did not like Tieflings.

 

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, at last, Subtlety's brain punctured the fog of alcohol and fatalism to spur him into gear. He had to get out Gresit. Now. Fast. However he got the garter, it wouldn't be good. If he could make the harbour, though, maybe... maybe he could get across the Ozmit to Tal Dorei. Tieflings were ten a penny in the bigger cities there. He'd be able to blend in, change his name again, work a few little scams...

 

And then. In time. When things had cooled down. He could come back.

 

Yes. Yes, that'd do it. That was a plan. He staggered upright again, tore through the dresser, threw aside all his finery; he needed something less flashy, something that could blend. In the end, he settled on the linen trousers and a dark grey hooded jerkin from gods alone knew where. Then back to the bed. Beneath the mattress a burlap bag. Inside the bag:

three gold children's rings, Anastasia's, good quality but far too small for her now, taken six months ago,

a small flawed ruby, also Anastasia's, won by bedroom games and given honestly,

eight fine silk napkins, Illyria's, excellent silk but befouled by the woman in question's constant battle to shame her family by way of filthy living- still salvageable to the right tailor or ragman,

two strong chains of silver and iron, with silk lined cuffs, Enevka's- made especially for games that still sent shivers of discomfort through Subtlety's belly, forever burnt into his memory and a branding scar below his hip,

and a dozen sundry necklaces, lockets, and other trifles, from various owners, none of them missed yet.

That'd do. If he went now, got to a half-decent fence and flogged the lot, he could be out of the city by sundown.

 

As close to satisfied as a wanted man can get, Subtlety pulled on his boots, went for the door-

-stopped-

-considered-

-turned back, ransacked the dresser again, pocketed the garter (can't leave it here, they'll find it, can't destroy it, they'll find the ashes), pulled open the curtains and dropped five feet into the alley behind the boarding house. A mid-morning sun beat at his shoulders and twisted the knife his hangover had planted in his wellbeing. He indulged himself for one moment in a whine of horror at the sheer state of existance, and then forged on. He had to be quick. He had to be lucky. And he had to go.

***

"The fuck did you do, Sut?" asked Ranyel, incredulous. The fence's office was quiet, and the windows were small. Thank every Heaven for small mercies. Even his hired thugs were quiet and polite.

 

"Nothing," Subtlety lied. "Went to the ballet. Had a few drinks. Went home. Thoroughly normal evening, nothing worth considering. Now will you-"

 

"Balls to that." Ranyel leaned forward, his gut shifting and rolling over like a beached whale as he moved, and stuck a thick finger against the tiefling's chest. "Have you been outside this morning?"

 

"Unfortunately, yes."

 

"So you noticed the streets are bloody boiling over with city watch?"

 

"The watch? On the streets? How shocking. I-"

 

"No, no, don't change the bloody subject. This isn't normal morning patrols. I don't know what this fucking is. I had the copper badges in here. In my office. Like I don't pay protection."

 

"You must be behind this month. How much-"

 

"Asking questions, they were. Had I seen a black skinned tiefling, bulls horns, red eyes, well dressed and cursed with a habit of talking utter shit like a highborn. Not many people fitting that description, Sut. In fact, just one."

 

"Well, maybe another one arrived."

 

Ranyel growled. "What did you fucking do?"

 

Subtlety gave up. He dropped his face into the palm of his hand, and prayed to whatever god would listen for some semblance of calm. "Look. Ranyel. Let me ask you a question first, and then you can decide if you want me to answer yours. If someone's stirred up the badges enough to bother fine upstanding criminals like yourself, in spite of protection money, good behaviour, years of tradition, et fucking cetera- do you honestly want to know why?"

 

Ranyel's face went still.

 

"Because all of the above suggests... movement. Political movement. Powerful people with long reaches and longer memories, who have friends in the army and the navy and fucking who knows where else. They tend not to want witnesses, Ranyel. They like their privacy, see, and threatening that... well."

 

Subtlety let the threat hang in the air a minute. He could see the state of things sinking into Ranyel's head like thumbtacks into a bowl of treacle.

 

"Or. You could stop asking questions. And tell me how much you can fence this for."

 

He waited. Three. Two. One...

 

"No."

 

That brought him up short.

 

"What?"

 

"I said no. Fucking hell. I don't know what you've done this time, Sut, and by Gods I don't want to know. But you're right, whatever it is, it's big, and I'll be fucked if I get involved in it."

 

"Ranyel, for Godssakes-"

 

"I didn't tell the copper badges nothing. That's all debts paid, alright? And I won't tell them you were here. But fuck me, get out of here. Now. I can't be seen with you around."

 

Rage, fresh and hot and homicidal, started brewing in Subtlety's heart, but before he could say a word, a hand clasped on his shoulder. He turned. One of Ranyel's dozens of anonymous, interchangeable thugs smiled blandly at him.

 

"Mr Ranyel has made himself clear, sir."

 

A long pause. Subtlety found himself in the strange crystallised calm that always came on him right before he killed someone. People tended to forget who he was. What his family could do.

 

Time to remind them.

 

He smiled at the thug, and thick streams of arcane shadows leaked between his teeth. The first spell was out of his hands in a crackle of snarling darkness. The thug's face went white the instant before it burst into flames. Subtlety didn't give him a chance to scream, just took the knife from his belt and buried it in the bastard's vocal chords. Behind him, Ranyel was rising, his voice reaching for a scream-

_no, said the shadows, and stretched open their wings-_

-but no sound came out, no sound anywhere now, the whole room bound up in silence, and then Subtletly let himself laugh with manic, furious glee.

The shadows grew, filled the office with velvet darkness. He danced through it on flickers of rage. Took up his knife. Put it through the necks of every hired sword in the room. Came back. Stood on the desk. Raised the blade.

Ranyel was still standing there, still screaming soundlessly, desperate and frightened. They weren't friends. Friendships were the one luxury Subtlety avoided, where he could. But they'd been... honest with each other, at least as much as two thieves could be. They'd understood their relationship.

 

Something not quite mercy but not quite not leached the rage out of him. He sighed. The shadows pulled themselves back down his throat, pouring into his chest and back to wherever they came from. Ranyel's eyes fixed on him. Subtlety gave him something like a smile, and put the knife through his hand, stapling him to the wall.

"Ran, darling. I want you to remember this. _I don't like being touched."_

He pulled the blade loose again. Ranyel dropped to his knees and scrambled backwards. If the spell wasn't there, he'd be whimpering like a kicked dog.

"Now listen. Listen to me. You're right. This is probably a little too big for you. For me either, but I'm in it, you're not. Thing is, I can't get out of here without a little coin. So. Have you got something for me?"

A long pause, while Ranyel cuddled his bleeding hand and glared murder and fear at Subtlety like daggers. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the receiving end on that kind of look. He'd gotten used to it. At last, the fat fence pulled his purse out of his pockets and threw it at him.

"Much obliged."

 

Subtlety climbed off the desk, stepped over the dead guards, and stopped at the door.

 

"For future reference, you did bring this on yourself, a little. I mean, I'm a tiefling. Everyone knows what we're like, don't they?" He gave a bitter little smile. A flick of the wrist. The silence shattered.

For a second, he thought the fat old fence was sobbing. Crying like a child. He opened his mouth to shower his contempt.

But Ranyel was laughing.

"You fucking idiot," he rasped. "You don't know what you've done, do you? Those copper badges, they're not good at keeping quiet. Even if they weren't, the criers will be putting the word out soon. Doesn't matter what I know. Little Olga, Emberdark. Daughter of the Duke. They'll hang you for this."

"Don't know what you're talking about," said Subtlety, bland as milk. Inside, he was cursing.

"Sure you don't. Never had you for a fool, Devil. What she do? Hah? She squeal too loud? She decide she didn't like it?"

A long, horrible pause. "What?"

"Just curious. Must take a lot to make you snap."

"What do you mean, snap?"

Ranyel laughed again, spiteful and foul. "They want you for murder, boy."

And something cold settled into Subtlety's stomach, tore out the bottom and pulled the whole world with it. He was afraid, suddenly. Really afraid.

"You know what they'll do next, don't you?" Ranyel continued. "Close the port. Bet you they have already. Bet you they'll even put the chain up. And after that, close the gates. Hard to get out that way, even at the best of times."

"Shut up," Subtlety snapped, but oh, Gods, his head was spinning and there's no fire in it.

"Leaves you stuck inside, doesn't it Sut? Stuck here, in lovely Gresit, with the lovely little duke and all his men looking for you, and a lovely little noose just waiting for you. They'll hang you for this, you shit. Tie it special to go around your horns."

 

The world was cold and dark. Ranyel was laughing at him again, an awful, shuddering laugh full of malice and joyful contempt.

 

Gods damnit. He can't leave now.

 

Subtlety drew his knife again, and started back towards Ranyel. "...If you'd just kept your mouth shut," he growled, and watched the realisation send the fat bastard's skin white.

"...I- No. Sut, come on."

"If you just hadn't told me, I wouldn't have to do this."

"Please. I won't tell anyone."

"No. You won't."

The knife came down again.

 

***

They called it Helltown because Ghetto is a dirty word. Fine cities like Gresit have no ghettoes or slums, for the city is prosperous and the people are happy.

They called it Helltown because Prison is too uncouth. Fine cities like Gresit have laws, and all citizens are equal beneath them, even if some of those citizens could no more keep themselves from crime than a fish could fly.

They called it Helltown, because that's where the tieflings live. And it's easier to keep them penned away from the rest where no-one important would have to see. They'd know where to go for cheap labour. They'd know how to find drugs or women or boys.

They called it Helltown. Subtlety hated it there.

 

The streets he'd chosen were tight, and crooked, and the sky was a slash of blue and gold light between the awnings. He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, shouldered past those few who got in his face. Ignored the catcalls and shouts.

"Hey! Hey, new horn!"

"Good time, baby boy, cost you only a copper, best in the township-"

"You want Suud, horn? Meatman's finest, going for a song."

"Girls and boys, women and men, whatever you want-"

"You want shoes? Good shoes. You want-"

"Mama? Mister, do you know where-"

"Hey horn!"

"Horn!"

"New horn!"

Over and over, a chorus of tiefling voices, raucous, melodious, young, old, all reaching out to him, wanting something. He ignored them all. Like he always did.

 

Until, at last.

"Abbadon?"

His eyes twitched up. The voice came from behind a beaded curtain, wreathed with smoke and shadows. He couldn't see the speaker. He didn't need to.

"Hello, Shedim," he grated through gritted teeth, and waved aside the beads.

Inside, the rooms were as they always were. Dark, crooked little hole, poorly lit. The shadows making all of it their playground. Only the fire in the grate knocked them back, set them dancing in the corners. They hid behind the great loom in the centre of the room, and coiled beneath its ebony shutters.

Subtlety tried not to glare at the loom. He could glare at his sister instead, and that was so much more rewarding.

Shedim was the image of him, he knew. As tall, as graceful, her bulls horns as high and imperious. Only her hair was different, a thick and silvery white mess compared to his own black curls. She wore it long down her back today.

"What are you doing here?"

"So good to see you too, sister dear," he muttered. "I trust the money got here fine?"

"Don't do that. I didn't-"

"Oh it did! How lovely. Glad I was able to help. Pray don't thank me. What else is family for, but to support one another?"

"Alright. Alright. I'm sorry."

"And how are your darling children? Doing well, I hope? Have they started shitting magic yet? They grow up so fast, don't they-"

"Enough."

The words came out like quiet thunder. Subtlety heard the click as his mouth closed.

 

They stared at each other, across the room and the wreckage of their family. Shedim sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose. "How are you?" she asked, tone forcibly light.

"Fine."

"Fine. Good. That's good. How's..." she visibly grasped for a name, "how's Valentina?"

"Who?"

She gave him a pained look. After a moment, recognition clicked. "Oh. Valentina. Yes. She's fine. We've parted ways."

"I'm... sorry to hear that."

"Are you?"

 

And that was clearly as far as Shedim had it in her to go. "No. No, I'm not. Should I be? I'm sorry, I didn't know I needed to care about your Johns. I thought traditionally those in your profession didn't keep track."

"Charming."

"What do you want, Subtlety?"

 

He bit down an angry retort. Shedim needed to be kept sweet.

"Can't I just visit my sister?"

"You could. You're not. You changed your bloody name, Abaddon. Family is not a core concern, no matter how much money you give me."

He felt his teeth grind against each other, stepped on another sharp, painful comeback, and just looked at her. After a moment, the guilt sank into her, and she looked away.

"I- I didn't mean that."

"As it happens," he replied, smoothly, "you're right. I do want something."

"What?"

"I need somewhere to stay. For a little while. There's been trouble-"

"I heard," said Shedim, suspicion in her eyes. "They closed the docks. And the gates."

"Yes. Well, I need to-"

"Docks and gates, that's the duke's authority."

"...Is it, indeed."

A long, horrible pause.

"Baddon, what have you done?"

 

It'd have been easier if she was angry, when she said that. Or even sad. But she wasn't. She was just tired, dog tired, and the guilt that hit him like a wave when she said it put his hackles up.

"I slept with a girl. A human girl. Isn't that enough? Or did you forget what a tiefling's worth in this town?"

There. Anger, flickered in her eyes. Much better. "I haven't forgotten anything," she snarled. "I'm not the one gadding about with nobles who make their money running tiefling slums. When was the last time you did something for anyone but yourself?"

The shadows were roiling off of both of them now, thick and shimmering, dancing with each other.

"Oh shut your sanctimonious hole, Shedim. I'm not here for judgement."

"Better sanctimonious than apathetic. Have you forgotten what you are? What you're supposed to be?"

"Spare me-"

"You're a shade witch!" And her cloak of shadows lashed out, then, proud and vast like a peacock's plumage. "You are the sword and shield of your people! You are their protector, their balm in sickness, their counsel-"

"-their friend in bad times in good, the soother of their brow, the wiper of their arse, I said _spare me."_

"Mother would be ashamed of you."

"She'd have to fucking notice me first."

And again. Silence, as they stared at one another.

 

"I am a son of Helltown," he said, eventually. "And I need help. The Watch are looking for me, for something I did not do. They are saying-"

"-You slept with a girl, yes, I heard-" growled Shedim, barely restraining herself.

"- _they are saying_ I killed the daughter of the Duke."

 

Shedim went still. Her shadows froze, pulled back, wreathed her in darkness. Only her eyes, scorching red, could be seen.

"I didn't do it. I may have been with her, I may not, I don't know. But I didn't kill her. I swear it."

"...They'll be looking for you."

"Yes. So I have come here. To you. A son of Helltown to the shadewitch."

 

It was cruel, to play on her duty like that. But it worked. "I'll let you stay tonight," she said, finally. "We'll have to move you after. Malphas owes me a favour, you can stay with him."

"I need to get out of-"

"Yes, I'm not a fool. But not now. They'll be looking for you."

She ushered him through to the bedroom, darker still than the front room. Two pairs of little red eyes peered up at him. He pasted on a smile.

 

"Uncle Baddon?" asked the smaller pair.

"Hello Lamashtu," he said, gently.

"It's not my birthday yet," said the larger.

"I know, Belial. I came early, so I could play."

 

A little giggle, childish and silly. In the dark, all children look the same.

"S'nice to see you."

"You too," he told them. And found, to his surprise, that he wasn't lying.


	3. Verist

** CHAPTER THREE **

** VERIST **

A fist slammed against the door of his office. If he was a better detective (that is to say, one more diligent with his paperwork), he'd probably have waited a second before opening it. As it was, the noise had barely finished as he took the chain off.

"Anveshak Verist, private investigator-" he managed, before seeing the face in front of him. "Oh for fuck's sake, Ruth," he finished, and stepped aside to let her in. "What took you so long? You got in this morning, you couldn't have dropped in after lunch?"

 

Ruth- who had been midway through pulling off her coat to hang on the hatstand- turned back to stare at him. "How did you know when I-"

"Stop talking," came the abrupt, if mildly amused, reply. Verist pointed to the sign on his door. Ruth growled.

"Your job is not the answer to every question I ever ask you."

"Has been so far, but I'll tell you if that changes. Drink?"

"Yes please."

 

They settled, after a few minutes' wandering, at what had once been his desk and was now a ragged set of drawers that had snapped in the middle with the remnants of the desk top leaning against it. Ruth, to her credit, didn't ask what had happened. He pushed across a tumbler of rum, poured himself a glass, and toasted her silently. They drank in silence for the first few moments.

 

At last, she cracked. "Honestly now, Verist. How did you know I was here?"

He smiled mysteriously and didn't answer.

"No, none of that. Tell me. How?"

"What'll you give me for it?"

She scowled at him. He kept smiling. Wonderful thing about Ruth; you could always crack her if you let her stew long enough. Three, two, one-

"Oh Gods above. Fine. A bottle of Whitestone gin."

"Two bottles, one produced now for this evening's revels."

"I don't-"

"Ruth. Please."

 

Another brief contest of wills. Then, with as much bad grace as could be mustered in the circumstances, she pulled a green glass bottle from her satchel and put it on the (half-dead) desk.

"Thank you. The gate guard didn't notice you. The Clasp pickpocket who works that crowd, however, did. I pay him a few coppers to keep an eye out for interesting people. A fire Genasi, well... that's interesting in this part of the world."

Ruth stared at him for a long moment. "You are... you are paranoid in the extreme, you know that?"

"Just curious, is all. Now. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need a drink. A private one."

"You always do."

She scowled at him. "Don't."

"Just an observation. What led you to want a drink? Besides the existence of anything ever?"

 

There was a long pause.

"If you were anyone else I'd take that personally."

"Good thing I'm me then. Answer the question."

She finished the rum, poured herself a generous tot of the whiskey-

and sighed. Some inner tension went out of her slowly, and left her slumped opposite him like a marionette with the strings cut.

"I'm... grounded," she said eventually, voice mournful.

"Grounded."

"Stuck on this plane. I... I have been for a while."

 

Verist considered that as he sipped at his rum again.

"...Before we go any further, the facts I know so far. You are an Explorator for the Divine, Arcane and Druidic Society for Extra-Planar Exploration, Historical Research and Cartography, better known as the Compass Rose because let's be honest that name is far too fucking long."

Ruth gave him a wry look. "Also the sky is up, water is wet and Kymal's a shit hole."

"As an Explorator," continued Verist, unperturbed, "your job is to go to other planes of existence within the Multiverse and scout them out, bringing back information and samples for research purposes."

"Yes. Fine. Yes."

"Given that you are, from my experience, a piss-poor academic-"

"Hey!"

"-it strikes me that keeping you from other realms of existence renders you essentially useless to the Rose. Yes?"

"...You're a dick."

"So yes. Alright. And there are... what, six other explorators?"

"Seven. But yeah, there's not a lot of us. You're still a dick."

"Noted. So... what did you do for them to ground you?"

She sipped her gin mutinously. "Nothing. They- they didn't actually ground me. There's... I'm looking after someone."

"The girl you were with at the gate."

"You fucking spider. Yes. Vivi. She's at the inn now, actually. Yes. I'm supposed to be- she's-"

"Difficult?"

 

The other thing about Ruth that Verist tended to forget until it was too late, was that she was very open with her displeasure. He remembered this after the tumbler cracked against his skull. When he opened his eyes again, Ruth glared at him.

 

"That was-"

"I like Vivi," she snapped. "I like her a lot. She's a good girl. A little confused, perhaps, but given the circumstances that's not surprising. She's trying. She's trying SO hard to improve. To do what's right. I am fucking _tired_ of having to explain that to people."

He lay on his back, pressed a hand to the fast-forming bruise on his temple, and considered his options.

Fact 1: He'd never get an apology from her. Even if she felt guilty about it, she never apologised to Verist.

Fact 2: She'd clearly had variations on this conversation before, with people who knew a lot more than he did about this Vivi girl and who clearly thought she was dangerous- or at the very least trouble.

Fact 3: Ruth was angry. Ruth was borderline drunk. And Ruth was clearly talkative. So answers could be caught, if approached correctly.

With that in mind...

"What circumstances?"

Ruth frowned in confusion.

"What?"

"You said, given the circumstances, it's not surprising she's confused. What circumstances?"

 

Something seemed to click in Ruth's head. She looked away, pressed her lips together, and visibly tried to hide her sudden outbreak of guilt.

"That's- Rose business."

"You just threw a glass at my head," he said flatly. She fought down a wince. "Tell me or get out, because a headache's suddenly come on."

 

She held out a hand. He fumbled about for his tumbler, then climbed to his feet, pointedly ignoring her. The gin was still on the table. He took a generous top up from it, turned, sat on the wreckage of his desk, and just... stared at her. She cracked. Quickly, too, thank God.

"The Rose... isn't- look, some of the academics-"

"Headache."

"There was a- guy. In Westruun. One of ours. He wasn't working at any of the campuses. We thought it was- Verist, this is serious stuff you're asking about. I can't just..."

 

Guilt clearly wouldn't get this out of her. He could leave it now; this wasn't the first time he'd been assaulted mid-conversation, and after a while he'd stopped taking it personally. Ruth would probably try and make it up to him later- there'd be a lunch or an extra bottle of gin would appear in his cupboard or his desk would suddenly mysteriously fix itself. Honour would be satisfied.

But this sounded interesting.

 

"You came here to talk," he said. "About Vivi, clearly. Or about something to do with her. You care about her enough that even suggesting something negative about her drives you to violence. There's clearly context here I'm missing, and I can't _help you_ if I don't have that context."

 

She wavered, visibly. "It's... it's a Rose secret," she muttered, tone desperate.

"I can keep a secret," he said with a shrug. "And you clearly want to tell me."

 

And at last, she broke. "The Westruun guy," she said, voice low, expressionless. "He was researching how Aasimar connect to their guides- the celestials or angels or whatever that sends them dreams. He'd done some good stuff. Really ground breaking. He had this... this idea about sympathetic magic as the core of the link. It'd even explain how they fell- push too far, change too much, you don't have anything in common with your guide. It snaps, you have no link to the planes of Good, bam, fallen Aasimar. Problem was, there was no way to prove it."

 

She stopped. Took a long, shuddering breath. Didn't seem inclined to go further. Verist considered.

"You... you could only prove that by actually studying the link," he said. Ruth made no response. "Aasimar only develop the link during puberty- you'd need to get them before then so you could watch it develop." Still nothing. "...He- he kidnapped her. The girl. Vivi."

"Kept her in a room," came Ruth's dull response. "Actually stopped the link from forming in the first place. In and of itself, that was..." And another drink. The glass was empty. He passed her the bottle without comment.

 

"Thing is, I think he realised the... opportunity that was in front of him," said Ruth, face twisting in disgust on the word. "So he decided to push it a bit farther. Managed to raise her under clinical conditions. Kept her from developing any morality. There's a gang in Westruun- well, there was at the time. They had a swordsman leading them. Hell of a blade. Our man paid him a lot to teach her how to fight. That's where things started to go bad for him, I think.  See, he wanted to do practical tests. Let the bond form, see how far you could push an Aasimar before they fell. So he'd be able to see how the bond snapped. So she starts working as a blade for the gang. Doesn't understand any of it, just..."

 

"And you found out," prompted Verist, after a moment.

"All of us did. The Explorators. Leo got a tip from a Deva on Celestia he's friendly with. A broken Aasimar. He got us all together, we went to Westruun, we... found her."

Verist thought, for a minute, about Ruth. About how angry she could get. About what she could do when she wanted to.

"And the academic?" he asked, eventually. Her eyes darkened.

"There is no hell deep enough for him," she said, voice simple and calm and shaking with fury. "But we did the best we could, under the circumstances."

 

There was a silence, still and cold as a frozen lake, after that. He watched her calm down, fill her glass, fill his. They sat at the desk again.

"So you're looking after her," he said eventually.

"Yeah. Trying to- fix- it. Her. Help her understand."

He smiled a little at that. "Admirable."

"Yeah, well."

And they sat and drank in silence.


	4. Grimaldi

** CHAPTER FOUR **

** GRIMALDI **

"It's a hundred miles to Gresit."

"Exactly my point."

"I could clear that in two hours. Three if I didn't spare the horses."

"With a full wagon? Please."

"It's wine."

"It'd break if you went that speed."

"Pack it heavy in advance. Straw. Lots of straw. Absolutely take the edge off."

"The edge is not the problem. Pot-holes are."

"They won't-"

"A thousand gold's worth of wine."

"I can manage a few pot-holes-!"

" _A thousand gold's worth of wine."_

The two merchants were silent. Grimaldi (who, today, was a stocky, pureblood elf, dressed in the travelling clothes they'd taken from the highwayman two days back) listened, fascinated.

 

"...So what?"

"We wait a few days for the rain to pass over. Then we go."

"Are you out-"

"We have their wine."

"-of your mind-"

"They are not going to be in a position to say no. We'll lose out two hundred gold on profits. Four hundred at the absolute worst. Next run we'll throw in a little extra as an apology."

"They'll go with someone else."

"No. They won't. We have Vasselheim wine, we go through the Vesper Woodlands, we don't charge mage prices. We're cheaper than everyone else. They won't be angry enough to go for a consistent price hike every godsdamned six months."

"After three days late on delivery?"

"We came across the whole damn continent. Three days is a miracle."

A long pause. Grimaldi leaned forward.

"...We go as soon as the rains pass over."

"The instant."

"...I pick the inn. We pay every day in advance so we can just go."

"Done."

"...You tell the passenger."

 

"No need!" Grimaldi said, brightly. The merchants visibly jumped. "I think it's an excellent idea. I took the liberty of speaking to the locals earlier- the rains will be over by noon tomorrow at the latest. That's how long the spells usually last this time of year. Assuming halfway decent sun, the roads should be functional again by the end of the week. I assume my ticket still holds to Gresit?"

The merchants faces had taken on a waxy, fish-eyed look. That tended to happen when Grimaldi talked to people.

"How- how long have you looked like that?" asked the older, fatter one.

"Since this morning. I saw this gorgeous elf boy back in Mahlgulin, and I've been just _dying_ to try something like it. And let's be honest, dears. The tiefling was just not working, was it. I can't speak for you, but I am _not_ a fan of mobs with pitchforks. Although that particular little backwater-"

"Yes," said the younger merchant, desperately. "Yes, I see. Alright. Can we-"

"- _such_ an awful thing to do! I mean, I had horns, I wasn't _hurting_ anyone, but no, chase the devil out! Burn him! Ugh. Honestly, dears, we're better off."

"Yes. Of course. In any case, the ticket-"

"YES!" Grimaldi smiled brightly. "It's still good, of course."

 

The older merchant leaned forward. Grimaldi watched his face, realised what was coming next, and decided to stop it. They turned their face to his, and smiled full-wattage.

"Because I paid good gold for that ticket, didn't I?" they said. "And I did help with security, which was definitely not what we agreed."

"Of course, but-" the old merchant began, desperation wafting off him like perfume.

"It's not that we don't appreciate the assistance!" The younger one added, taking up the conversation. "You've been exceptionally helpful! But... given these events, we find ourselves-"

"We'll delay you."

"Through no fault of our own!"

"And we just thought-"

"Wanted to let you know-"

"That if you wanted to keep going-"

"So as to keep on schedule!"

"We'd of course understand."

"Oh, that won't be at _all_ necessary," Grimaldi replied, still smiling. "We've all gotten so _comfortable_ with each other these last few months, haven't we?"

The merchants stared at each other. Then they stared at Grimaldi. Grimaldi stared back- _and did not stop smiling._

 

Some last reserve of bravery led the old one to rally, weakly. "We... we didn't expect so many... irregularities."

And at last, Grimaldi let the smile drop. They sighed, pinched the bridge of their nose, and leaned forward. "No-one ever expects irregularities," they said patiently. "That's why they're irregularities. They are chaotic. The occur, like all expressions of disorder and spontaneity, at random. In this respect, they're much like miracles; taking the humdrum, the ordinary, and disrupting it. Changing it. Sometimes destroying it, too. Good order survives chaos. Bad order doesn't."

They didn't seem to get it. Clearly, it was time for honesty.

The merchants watched in something like horror as Grimaldi's face started to shift and flow like hot tar. Flesh twisted, shivered, paled from the warm peach of elvish skin to...

to...

 

Grimaldi smiled again. The face they smiled from was very different.

 

They were short, now, and slim, with very black hair. Their skin was the dead white of fresh snow. Their face was sharp. Their eyes were an inhumanly deep green. Their hair was a thick black mass of curls. Their lips, too, were flat black. Two perfectly black diamonds covered their eyelids. Lines ran up from those diamonds to their hairline, and down to their chin. A single black spot covered the tip of their nose.

It was as close as Grimaldi came to a face that was truly their own. It was not a comforting face. Neither was it particularly gentle.

"Chaos is a cleansing agent," they said. "It's the final exam of existence. It doesn't stop. It doesn't end. It doesn't go away. If you can survive that, the reward is you get to live. Or to keep doing things the way you want them done. But the exam doesn't stop, not ever. Eventually, you will fail. Eventually, everything fails. Then, chaos takes you apart. You dissolve, broken down into pieces. It's like you were never even there. Chaos will birth something new to take your place, so you won't even really leave a gap. So please. Don't be worried about your irregularities. You navigated them. Worry about the ones you won't."

 

They let the words sink in, then shifted back to the elf girl again. The change was instantaneous- no need to show off this time.

"But in the meantime, we've two days till Gresit, yes?"

The younger merchant nodded, staring at them. Grimaldi decided not to smile at him; clearly he didn't like smiles.

"Wonderful. In the meantime, I think I'll have a look around town. Elf girl should be fine, right?"

***

 

The town wasn't even a town, really; just a few inns, a handful of houses, a dozen beaten-down farms scraping what they could out of the dirt and a market to sell it. It didn't even have a name. Places like this never did.

A hundred miles to Gresit. The ruins of the Palac Lusterka weren't that far from here. Tieflings were born here, supposedly, long ago. Warlocks and demons and strange unions in darkest nights. Honestly, though, Grimaldi doubted that. Historians, especially male ones, had a habit of ascribing all sorts of people with strange unions. Side effect of days spent inside, clearly, and not enough meeting people and making friends.

 

There was a temptation, as always, to hit this place like a hurricane. Places like this would have a headman, or a council of elders, or knitting circle. They'd be old, whoever they were. Set in their ways. They'd run things the way their forefathers had run them, and damn any who'd want to try the difference. The young would flee, or be slowly ground down into clones of their parents. If they thought about it at all, they'd approve of it. See it as a good and proper way to be.

 

Two days, though. A project like this would be... complicated. The headman would need to be humiliated, publically. The council of elders would need, one after another, to be revealed in their perversions or stupidity. Things would need to be remade, fundamentally. And it'd be slow going. People in places like this were like overworked clay, sometimes; fibrous and stringy, and thus hard to reshape. Change would be rough as hell on their souls. Two days... it'd have to start now. Right now.

The merchants would probably take any excuse to leave without them, too. And in and of itself, that wasn't the end of the world. Gresit was just a name picked at random, no meaning to it. But still. After so long, to have to walk the last hundred miles was... irritating.

 

The sound of flesh striking flesh caught their ear like a fishhook. They turned. A farmer stood over his son, snarling in fury.

"I SAID THE BEETS, BOY!"

"Sorry, da, I didn't-"

"THE BEETS! NOT THE FUCKING TURNIPS! WHO'S GOING TO BUY THESE?!"

And he lay into the boy again, fists striking down like hammers. A woman was watching from her doorway less than a hundred feet away. Something in her face moved, twitched. For a second, Grimaldi wondered if she'd do something.

The woman turned. Caught their eye.

Say something.

Go on.

Do it. Do it and I'll go. You can keep your town. I'll pass you by, and tomorrow will be like today will be like yesterday. None of the pain of change, none of the horror of old wrongs dragged out into the light.

Just say something. Tell him to stop.

 

The woman dropped her eyes. Then, suddenly fierce, she looked up again, stared at the farmer in the street. She started out of the door towards him-

and a hand locked on her arm. Her husband, Grimaldi assumed. His face was older than hers. Full of something between love and irritation. He pulled her back inside, looked outside, glared half-heartedly at the farmer, and slammed the door closed.

 

Yeah. That counted, alright. Two days to pull this town out at the root. A chance to test themself. Yes. Yes, that sounded about right. And Gresit would still be there later. What was a hundred miles, anyway? They'd get there in a few weeks, no harm done.

 In the meantime, it was time to find some trouble to get into.


	5. Huygens

** CHAPTER FIVE **

** HUYGENS **

 

'A smith in Westruun is a smith with full pockets," the saying went. It wasn't far from true, either; the Observatory (looming high over Westhall Academy, with its vast brass armatures in constant need of replacement) and the thriving Market ward kept the anvils ringing and the bellows working from sunrise to sunset- sometimes even beyond. And it was a big city, too; crammed, it was, with people of every race and shape and size.

There was work, and anonymity. Those were the pros. The cons, as always, were security. It was crammed full of people. He'd never be able to vet them all. His pursuers could hide in the crowds as easily as he could. And they had experience hunting him. How much of a shield would that anonymity be?

 

But the truth was, Westruun was the only good option he had. He couldn't keep working the small towns; he stuck out too much, left far too much of a trail. All they'd need to do was ask after the drifter blacksmith who stayed bundled up, even in the heat of the forge, and they'd have him. The other cities were too far away. They'd take him on the road, and that would be the end of Aktun Huygens. That put the ports out, too. And even if it didn't, he couldn't keep himself covered on a ship. Close quarters for the better part of a week, maybe two depending on destination? No. He'd be found out. Westruun wasn't perfect. But it was the best he'd do in the circumstance.

 

That's what he thought as he pulled broad-brimmed, weatherbeaten hat down further over his face and tried to keep himself from fiddling with the rag across his face. It was fine. The hat tended to push back when the wind hit it, but the rag didn't need fiddling with. This was Westruun. People came and went all the time. The Shields of the Plain didn't even give him a second glance as they'd waved him through the gates. So one drifter wanted to bundle up, so what?

So the other ones don't have as much to hide as me, he thought ruefully. But it was too late now. He was here. What now?

 

Work first. Then lodging. There'd be an inn where he could lock the door, set up a trap, make it clear he was the paranoid type. Somewhere out of the way, he'd be fine. Best there was in the circumstance. He could move again in a few days. For now, work.

And thank any God that listened for the market ward. The ringing of hammers brought him to the local smiths street. You could hear them half way across the city. But finding the right place, that would be harder. Too small, and he'd be noticeable. Too big, and they might not be hungry for smiths. And they'd have to be plenty hungry; he was too weird for anything else.

So he wandered, head down, moving just fast/slow enough, eying up smith shops, discarding place after place. He felt a weight in his iron clad heart as slowly the list of maybes started to transmute (through bad luck alchemy) into nos. This was not how it was supposed to go. It wasn't.

 

In the end, there was only one left. A tiny place, far down at the end of the ward, under the dingy sign of "Duck Hockenflock- Blade and Armour". He'd have written it off, but his pockets, like his stomach, were empty. It was this or nothing.

Risky.

Hungry.

This.

He ducked his head and stepped inside. There was the steady rhythm of a hammer at anvil- for a moment. Then, cursing, and a man struggling at a bellows. A tiny man, Huygens realised, as his eyes adjusted to the light: gnomish, maybe, or a halfling, he'd never been good at telling the difference. The bellows at the forge had come loose, and now the little man was struggling to reattach it without losing the heat in the blade he was working.

"Master Hockenflock?"

The tiny head snapped up, glared.

"Who's asking?"

"I am sir," said Huygens, keeping his tone respectful as he could. "I'm looking for work."

"And you come here? You could- fuck-" and the smith- assumably Hockenflock- snarled at the swiftly dulling steel. This was as close to a chance as Huygens would get. He lunged, took tight hold of the bellows, and started to work them with broad, even strokes. The flames in the forge deepened, licked up. "Now, master!"

Whatever reservations Hockenflock had, they were clearly overpowered by the risk of losing good steel. He thrust the blade into the flames and held it there, waiting. A minute went by. Two. The steel started to glow white hot. Disaster averted, he turned back to glare at Huygens.

 

"I could have managed that," he growled. Then some internal well of anger inside him seemed to run dry, and he smiled, suddenly, sharp and bright. "But it'd have been a bastard to do. You can work a bellows, sir, I'll give you that. What's your name?"

The first in a series of lies. Best not to get it wrong, or the others would go worse for it. "Pieter, sir," he said, quickly. "Pieter Stanzer."

"Stanzer. Not a name I know."

"It's from my homelands, sir. I'm Issylran."

"Vasselheim?"

"Yes, sir."

"Long way from home," said Hockenflock, as he pulled the blade from the furnace and put it to the anvil. "Fetch me a hammer, boy- a number six. We'll be on the detail work, now."

 

Huygens went. For all its darkness and tiny size, the workshop was immaculate otherwise, and he was back with the number six quickly enough. Hockenflock eyed him.

"Can you put a fuller to a blade?"

"Yes sir."

"Well then," said the smith, gesturing. Huygens considered. It seemed... strangely rude to use another smith's anvil, but it was that or go. He dropped to his knees to lean over the anvil, and went to work.

 

Light taps, now. Delicate, but strong. People never understood the gentleness of smithing; the need to coax the metal into shape, gentle as a lover. Light taps that set the anvil ringing like a bell. The song of the forge. He didn't know how long it had been when he felt the hand at his shoulder, and turned back, confused. Hockenflock wasn't looking at him, though- just eying the blade.

"I said a fuller," he muttered gruffly. "Not finish the piece, just a fuller."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't be," came the gruff reply. "It's a damn fine blade." He took the knife up, eying it carefully. Then he turned back to Huygens. "What would you do with it next?"

"Take it to the grinder. Put an edge to it. Then temper it in oil."

"Not water?"

"No, sir." I'm not a fool, Huygens wanted to say. But it'd only be unwise.

"Why not?"

"You're using Kraghammer iron. The composition of the metal doesn't take to water well. And it'd boil off too fast; this will take a few minutes."

 

Hockenflock looked at him like a puzzle to solve. "You come to me for work, but you've skill enough to run your own shop," he said abruptly. "Why?"

Lie two. Not even really a lie, this time. "I'm not from Westruun, sir, so I am not a guild member. I'd have to be sponsored." He watched the smith's face sour. "And I'm not asking for your sponsorship, sir," he said hastily. "I don't know how long I'll be staying. But while I'm here, I'd work."

"Here," came the slow response. "In my shop. Not Gildensterns, up the road, with his six forges and twelve prentices. Nor at Lochlen's, on the main street. Here."

Shit. "I'm particular about forges," Huygens began, but Hockenflock waved him into silence.

"You're bundled up like tomorrow's Winter's Crest," he said, bluntly. "Even at the forge. You keep your head down and your hat pulled low. I've been talking to you a good ten minutes, still haven't seen your face."

 

Shiiiiiiiit. "I'm sorry to waste your time, sir-"

"No time wasted yet. You're worth a gold an hour. I'll give you ten silver, no questions asked."

And there it was, Huygens marveled as fury boiled over in him. A weakness exposed, and advantage taken. And the worst part was, that was the best offer he was going to get. It was this or nothing, now.

"...Done," he ground out, teeth pressed against each other. Hockenflock gave him a sour grin.

"Good boy. Go on. Go find a bed. Be here in the morning. Early."

***

 

That alone should have been a sign. Hockenflock was crooked, clearly. He should have left that night, found a small town, taken a position there and regrouped. To do otherwise was to court disaster.

But he didn't. Like a fool, Huygens stayed. He'd promised himself, at ten gold, to get out of Westruun- buy himself passage on a merchant's caravan, keep his head down and his mouth shut, and go to Emon. At ten silver, that was twenty days. Worse, Hockenflock closed the shop on weekends- four weeks. He should have been smarter. He should have gone.

 

He didn't go. He stayed. He stayed, and tried to work the weeks. Like a foolish little boy who didn't know better.

And thus, it was all his fault when it all went wrong.

***

 

The third week, it was, and the last day before the weekend. Hockenflock, through some mad quirk of fate, had gotten a job from the Shields. Thirty breastplates, by the start of next week. It had been all they'd worked on for days. Huygens dreamed of breastplates, now. Of the noise of hammers beating on steel. Of rivets clanging home into metal plates. Perhaps that was what it was. His mind so consumed by the order that he forgot to be afraid. Forgot who he was running from. Forgot who he was.

Or maybe it had just been bad luck. Either way. It had happened. As the evening came down, and the weather got cold as hell, he'd leaned forward to look closer at the piece he was working. He'd been sure, certain, even, that Hockenflock was out of the shop. So he'd pushed his hat back. His only cue for his mistake had been the quickly crushed gasp behind him.

 

The gasp was enough. He whirled. Hockenflock stared.

 

If Huygens could have gone pale, he would have. But he couldn't. When your flesh is made of grey beaten iron, and your skull is full of silver-gold clockwork visible through a glass panel, you never go pale. He watched Hockenflock's hand go for the door.

He regretted drawing his gun. But at least the hand stopped moving.

"Close it," said Huygens, quietly. Hockenflock's eyes had settled on his gun barrel. The old smith closed the door. "Do you know what this is?"

"Yes. I trained in Whitestone."

"Good. Then you'll recognise this as well," said Huygens, as he pulled the other revolver, training it on Hockenflock's face. "And you'll know what will happen if I pull the triggers. Step away from the door now. Slowly."

Hockenflock went. Huygens sat, slowly, on the only stool in reach. They stared at each other.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"I don't know."

"...What _are_ you?"

"That is not the sort of question I would ask someone pointing guns at me."

"Interesting guns," muttered Hockenflock. If he was afraid, he didn't show it. "That's not a DeRolo design."

"No."

"I've heard about the Ripley guns-"

"I made them myself," snapped Huygens, and then cursed himself for rising to the bait. Hockenflock smiled.

"Self taught?"

"Shut up."

"I don't think you're going to shoot me."

"Try me then."

"You're a smart boy," went on Hockenflock, heedless. "Built your own guns. All sorts of other things, I'd guess. Know your way around a forge. You're not going to throw that all away."

Huygens thumbed back the hammers on his revolvers. Hockenflock stopped. They sat in silence a moment.

 

"The breastplates," said the gnome, suddenly. Huygen's eyes widened.

"That's-"

"The Shields will be coming to collect them. Soon. And you can't shoot me," he added, desperately. "The noise alone will attract attention. Lots of it. You'll be caught. Fast."

And damn him, he was right. Something like indecision started to crackle in his head. He could put the guns away. Or just... tie Hockenflock up. Run now, quickly. He'd pocket what coin he had, call it the best he could. There had to be something.

 

And then, as always, his life got worse, and took the choice away from him. The thud against the door almost set the guns off in his hands. He watched Hockenflock start, eyes still locked on the gun barrels.

"That'll be them now," he whispered. But it wasn't. Huygens knew it wasn't, even before the voice rang out.

"Apple," it said. It wasn't a human voice. Neither was it sane. It had the hard, clear enunciation of a clock, vowel sounds as smooth and clear as glass. It's tone was gentle, mellifluous. Fundamantally wrong.

Hockenflock paled. Huygens ground his teeth together, pointed one gun at the door.

"Apple," came the voice again. "Come out. It's time."

"What is that," whispered Hockenflock, horror and fascination mingling in his tone.

"Shut up," growled Huygens. In his minds, plans flickered back and forth. He couldn't take this thing _and_ cover Hockenflock. Not at once. The split in focus would be all this thing needed. He glared at the door, at Hockenflock, at the unseen thing outside.

 

And decided. He turned, aimed both guns at the door, and fired. The wood didn't so much splinter as shatter under the onslaught of hungry bullets. He heard the thing scream. Hockenflock fled immediately for the safety of the back room.

 

Two guns, six bullets a piece, twelve shots total. Minus two. Ten shots left. The moved, slow and cautious, towards the door. It wouldn't be dead. He didn't have that kind of-

movement. Aim. Shoot. Nine shots. The arm snaps back, but the body follows it, moving with mechanical grace, too fast for details beyond _tall, skinny, roughly humanoid,_ and then there is a face in front of him, jaws too wide, sheetmetal teeth, uniform but jagged snapping at his head.

Too close for another shot. Fall back. Legs go up- it's arms are still at its sides, one dripping blood/oil/something from the bullet he put in it, or this would be death- catch its chest, heave it back into the smithy. Keep rolling, land, _turn-_

It hits the back wall, stays there in defiance of all gravity, claws punching into the stonework, looks back at him, leers-

He has seconds, if that. Raises his guns. Fires. Eight. Seven. Six. Bullets tear through it like wet paper. It's _still fucking smiling._

"Apple. It's time."

And that voice. That still horribly beautiful voice. Why do they always fucking sound like that? It's still now, still enough that he can see the bandages binding up its naked chest, see the surgery scars running over its shoulders and neck and face.

See the brass-and-glass eyes like his staring back at him, exactly like his. Which of his classmates had those eyes belonged to? Archytas? Mu?

 

Rage takes him. Five. Misses. It's skittering along the wall like a spider, now, closer than it has any right to be. The claws will open him up like a birthday present. Four. Hits. It reels back. Two few shells left in the guns. He won't have a chance to reload. It's being stupid- implantation would have been recent, and clearly not enough for it to start converting itself. It's still mostly flesh. That makes it young. Here, young means dumb. Wait now-

Let him be lucky, gods, let him just once in his awful life be lucky-

it jumps

- _yes-_

Claws out, arms lashing at him, but not to cut, the stupid thing is trying to _grab him-_

gun arms held straight, go right past it's guard-

 

And three goes through its neck.

 

Things slow down. The force of the shot sent it catapulting backwards, head craning back, arms flung out. A perfect summersault. Huygens lips quirked in a bleak smile. Perfect. Of course.

It landed in a pile of heaving limbs, clawed hands going for its throat, gasping for air. It's very young. There's still something like self preservation in it. Huygens kept his guns pointed on it, and advanced like an executioner.

"How long have you followed me?" He asked conversationally. The anger and the fear would do him no good, now. He put them back in their box in his head. The thing snarled at him, mouth full of blood and oil. He struck it across the face with the butt of his gun.

"How long?"

"Stupid apple, running from the harvest," it snarled-gurgled-chuckled. At least it's fucking voice isn't so pretty any more. "Should have stayed in the orchard."

 

The anger reared its head in the box. He stamped it down.

"You're dying. You realise that, yes?"

"I am a messenger only," it gurgled, but there was something like fear in those stolen eyes.

"I don't think you believe that. But- we are in a smithy. There's material here that I could use to save you. How long?"

 It was a lie. Not even a very good one. But the thing was starting to choke, now, and it's hard to be a true believer when your own lifeblood is filling your throat. Piety and survival battled, for a moment, and then survival won.

"Two weeks."

"Alone?"

"No. We- lost you outside the Frostweald- please-"

"And the others?"

"We split up. They followed the other trails. I wanted to catch you first- please, it-"

"Had you a way to contact them? To let them know where I was?"

It's eyes twitched towards its jacked. Huygens sighed.

"And did you?"

"No. I- I've only just- I wanted to prove myself."

 

And it wasn't lying. Huygens smiled without humour.

"Thank you, you've been very helpful," he said.

Two.

 It's head shatters. Brains erupted from the back of its skull, full of strange silvery metal things like thorns and soaked in oil. They painted an ink-black portrait on the wall.

Huygens felt the box crack open. He shuddered, dropped his right hand gun (empty now, anyway) and grasped for the workbench. Barely able to stand, now, and his guts a heaving roiling mess. He couldn't do this. Couldn't keep doing this.

 

But- no. Control. Control had got him this far. He would _not_ lose that now. Pulled himself together. Examined the corpse. Black pants, black jacket- inside, the embroidery showed gears and cogs, linked in perfect harmony. He remembered the design from the school. Somehow, it was worse than the horror of the eyes. No shirt. The shoes had been ruined by the claws that had punched out of them. On closer inspection, the feet were gone entirely, replaced by an awful, reaching set of appendages. They must have split when it jumped. That was new. New disturbed him. They shouldn't be adapting or changing, that was-

 

He was stalling. Worse, he knew he was. Huygens reached out, and let his fingers snag on the bandages. Gods, he didn't want to see. But he had to. Had to remind himself, keep from getting lax again.

He pulled. The bandages came away so easily.

 

They had left the chest cavity open, he thought clinically. There would be a reason. So it could marvel at its transformation, and watch the beneficence of True Order spread through itself. Not even a lie, not to them. The Chirurgeon-priest and the mechanist would have believed each word they whispered in its ear. The gears had stopped turning, at least. They'd clearly been tearing at the cavity walls- he could see the awful wounds torn up in the flesh next to its spine.

The iron heart was still beating. He shouldn't be surprised. Mechanatrix organs didn't stop until they were destroyed, and he hadn't hit the heart. It explained the oil, at least.

 

"What- what is that thing?"

Hockenflock. Gods. Huygens had forgotten him. He turned, slowly, and reached for his hat.

"Bad," he said simply. "Very very bad."

The hat went back on his head. He holstered his empty gun. Hockenflock's eyes went to the full one.

 

He'd seen too much. It wasn't safe to let him live. Every person he told would put Huygens more at risk. He raised the gun.

He holstered it.

"The breastplates are almost finished," said Huygens. "I'll take my silver now."


	6. Johen

** CHAPTER SIX **

** JOHEN **

 

The Warhurst house was old. Older than most of Kymal. In the moonlight of a rare clear night, its roof sent spires and weathervanes stabbing at the sky, shading from black to silver as the wind drove it into the light. The windows were tall and slim, shaded slate black in the darkness. It was beautiful, unlike most of the city. Truly beautiful.

Johen hated it.

He hated it as he hated almost everything in life; a dark, resentful kind of hatred that squirmed and squalled from the bottom of his mind, poisoning his every thought until he couldn't breathe for contempt. He'd spent so much of his life burying his fingers into that cloud of bitter fury and pushing it down, burying it as deep as he could. Hiding it where no-one could see. Where he couldn't see.

 

 _Not anymore, Poor Johen,_ came the shivering, sliding whisper of his Passenger. _No more burying anything._

Johen smiled. No. No more burying anything. Not now. Inside, he knew, Liana would be sleeping at her desk. Her mother would have chided her earlier and tried to send her to bed. Liana would have smiled, promised she'd go as soon as she finished the accounts, and turned back to work. It wouldn't even have been a lie; she'd have had every intention of finishing up. But there'd have been something irritating she wasn't expecting- some strange order she didn't understand, or the wages would have added up wrong, or perhaps the tax to the Margravate was higher than expected.

She'd have kept at it for hours, until at last exhaustion would have overcome her. She'd be slumped forward, head on the open ledger, glasses pushed to one side. Her hair, dark and thick and heavy, would be gleaming in the light. She'd look so beautiful. You'd think she was an angel, if you didn't know her.

 

Johen did. Liana was no fucking angel. Liana tore your heart out and expected you eat it. Didn't matter how many apologies she wrapped it up in, or how gently she tried to do it. Liana hurt the kind and innocent, and expected them to love her for it. And now. Now it was time for her to get her just desserts.

Now it was time to tear her little whore heart out. And she'd eat it, too. He'd be sure of that.

 

His Passenger shuddered in ecstasy. His whole mind filled with its quivering rumbles of pleasure. _Such hate, Poor Johen,_ it whispered. _Such wonderful, vibrant hate. Oh, my sweet creature. More. More, please, give me more, show me more, help me see, help me understand..._

It rambled on. He let the words fill him  like music, some grand orchestra from beyond any world he could imagine- that could _be_ imagined. All of it perfect. All of it kind. Johen had thought he'd known love, before he'd first heard the whisper. He'd been wrong. Nothing could match up to this. Nothing mortal could show him what it was like to feel so good.

 

"Lord Director?"

The voice was soft, reedy, a little nasal. Johen bit down a sigh. All that love came with a price tag, just like everything else worth having. And besides. Business before pleasure.

He turned away from the house to survey the skinny, leech-pale woman next to him. She was eying him anxiously. Probably afraid. It wasn't her fault this was so badly timed; he should set her at ease. Johen pulled his lips back into as comforting a smile as he could manage.

 

"Rest easy, child. You have news?"

Her eyes dropped. Still afraid. But she didn't seem as frightened, at least. The Passenger cooed in appreciation. Compassion was a novelty.

"Yes, lord. The hunts are continuing apace."

"The Zelekhut?"

"New leads. The Caldamere sighting was confirmed; historical records indicate that a murderer had fled to the lake to try and evade capture. He attracted the Zelekhut. Details are sketchy, but from what we can establish it seems he killed it."

"A powerful murderer," Johen murmured, an eyebrow raised.

"Yes, lord. A mage. And a good one, it seems."

"Do we have a name?"

"Ezranis Leonor, formerly of the Arcana Pansophical. An Umbra Hills veteran. He killed his husband. Jealousy seems the likeliest motivation; Leonor was scarred quite badly."

"Vanity. What a terrible curse. And the remains?"

"Looking at the craters around the lake, we can assume it would have landed on the northern shore. We've set up dig sites around the area."

"Good. The asylum?"

"Proceeding apace. The wardens are proving harder to infiltrate than expected- the master is... particular."

He sucked his teeth as he thought, irritated. "We can't interfere directly. The sacrament would render them too obvious. Tell me about the master."

She shrugged. "About what you'd expect for a Dwendalian noble. Arrogant, but predictably so. Unmarried, so his mistress is no good for leverage- they have lunch together almost every day. He seems to enjoy the position. We have evidence to suggest his family wanted something a little out of the way. He embarrassed the house somehow."

"So nothing we can use."

"Not yet, Lord. But on the upside, those we have in place report that once we have wider control, the rest should be easy. The patients are prone to hallucinations. The staff rarely listen to them."

"That's something, at least."

 

He wanted to look at the house. It would be time, soon, he knew it. But no. He had to focus.

"Preperations for the South?"

"We've located three infernal cults that would be appropriate. No contact as yet.

"Good. Keep it that way."

  
Almost time. Almost-

No. Focus. Ignore the Passenger's fascinated squirms. Ignore everything. Business before pleasure.

"Leaving, of course, the buried one and... revenge."

For the first time, the woman smiled. It was a cold, vengeful thing, more a twist of her lips than anything resembling real joy. But it spoke of a pleasure long delayed, and Johen couldn't help but return it. Still.

"The buried one first, sweetling," he admonished gently. She ducked her head. Nodded.

"Stillben," she said. "It has to be Stillben. Everything we've found, the oracle readings, the records, the echoes from the other prime materials, it all points there."

"Good. And?"

"We're lucky. The Clasp Myriad war seems to be deteriorating. That's keeping them focused on street level. It's making it harder to actually investigate, but it's left the city's political apparatus unprotected. I'd like your permission to begin to infiltrate it."

"You want to recruit the politicians?"

"Or simply bribe them to look the other way, but yes, essentially."

 

Johen considered. It wasn't a bad plan; Stillben was usefully situated in any case, and a city in their pocket could provide all sorts of fringe benefits.

He nodded.

"Begin, then."

"Thank you lord." And the smile came back. "Can we discuss-"

 

The house felt like a weight at his back, but he couldn't help the laugh. "Yes. Yes we can."

"It's all in place. We have the campus locations, and enough fire power to clear them out."

"Good. The banishments?"

"Ready. There's only two Explorators on-plane. We've acquired a sample of Darghavis' blood; that'll keep him out for long enough. We've managed to lock it enough to keep him in the nine hells.

Johen's smile was a callous thing. Darghavis. Sneering half-orc shit. Yes. That'd be fair, to send him screaming into Asmodeus' kingdom. "Good."

The woman gave him a hesitant look. "But Sharla Ruth-"

Johen's good humour evaporated. "Sharla Ruth," he said, with as much calm as he could manage, "is not to be interfered with. When things begin, I will handle her. Alright?"

 

For a moment, things went as expected. The woman dropped her eyes again, hunched her shoulders, cowered. She remembered her fear of him. He enjoyed that.

But it didn't last. The woman's shoulders squared. After a moment, she looked up at him, held his gaze as steadily as she could.

"You are Lord Director," she said, voice held to a calm she was fighting for. "But you are new to the Passenger's service. I have been part of this faith since the beginning. And I was there when- when..."

Something cracked in her voice. She stopped, ground her teeth, started again.

"My parents died in the flames. I watched them burn. I only escaped because they didn't see me. And I am far from unique, Lord Director. So many of us could tell you the same story, or one like it. Sharla Ruth was part of that, Lord. She was young, you could argue. She did not understand. I do not care. She was part of it. To let her escape justice like this..." She trailed off with a bitter laugh. Stared at the house.

 

Johen waited.

"Are you finished?"

"Yes."

"Good. Who am I?"

"The Lord Director."

"Yes. What is in my head?"

Her face was unreadable.

"The Passenger."

"Yes. Do I speak to you as a sane man?"

"Yes."

"Do I wield the Gifts of the Far Realm?"

"Yes."

_Do I rule you?_

His voice in her skull was like the touch of some awful thing, older than her, dark, cruel. She staggered.

_Do I?_

"Yes, lord," she gasped, tears of pain leaking from her pale eyes.

Johen smiled mirthlessly.

"Then I expect to be obeyed. Sharla Ruth is not to be interfered with. I'll handle her myself. Alright?"

The woman nodded.

"Then go. I have personal business to attend to."

 

The woman fled down the alley. The Passenger twisted in his mind, caught up in a flush of emotion it didn't understand. Johen took a moment, let it calm. Then at last he turned.

And there was the house. The door was open. He watched the butler light his pipe as he always did. Time. Time at last.

Johen moved, gliding between the edges of worlds, invisible, intangible, until he stood at last behind the old man.

_Hello._

The Passenger gibbered. He watched the butler's eyes widen. Then... a flash of blue. The Passenger took root in him. It was not gentle, as it was with Johen.

The man collapsed. Johen had hours, now. When the old man woke, it would be the Passenger staring out of his eyes, puppeting his mind in its quest to understand. He couldn't muster the will to care. Instead, he stepped inside, and closed the door.

 

The house was dark. A single, guttering candle-light gasped from down the hall.

 

Johen's smile was a callous thing.

"Liana..."


	7. Subtlety

** CHAPTER 7 **

** SUBTLETY **

 

There was a murmured goodbye behind Shedim's last customer, and then the beads swung back into place, bouncing gently off each other a quiet clatter. Subtlety let himself rise, crooked-limbed from stiffness, and wander out from the bedroom. Shedim had already gone to the loom. She didn't look at him. Subtlety went to the kettle at the hearth.

 

Her house. Be polite.

"Tea?" he asked. She grunted. That was probably as close to a yes as he'd get. He took the kettle to the cupboards in the corner, rummaged for tea, and started spooning out the dark, aromatic leaves. The smell of them filled the room, a heady mix of lavender, peppermint and an acrid hint of brimstone. He twitched at that. Turned. Stared at his sister.

"...You have infernal tea?" He asked, tone deeply dubious. Something like a snicker passed her lips. "You are unbelievable."

"I happen to like that tea," she said primly, over the steady rumble of the loom. "It's very refreshing."

"refreshing."

"Perhaps even Invigorating. Lovely zest."

"A zest that smells like rotten eggs."

"All a matter of taste I suppose."

 

He snorted derisively, scooped the tea into the kettle, added a little water from the jug on the side, and went back to the hearth.

"Well. Your zesty tea will be ready in a few minutes."

"Kind of you. The kids?"

"Asleep."

She gave him an incredulous stare. "At this hour of the day?"

"Yes."

"Really? ... _how?"_

"I'm good with kids," replied Subtlety haughtily.

"Since bloody when?"

"Since always."

There was a long pause. He watched Shedim visibly decide not to challenge that particular assumption. They'd managed a tenuous equilibrium, since he'd come back from Malphas' rooms. No family talk. Keep it about the kids, or the ridiculousness of small things. Light teasing. And only when things were stable, when the tension was buried deep and barely there at all...

 

"Any news?" he asked, tone even and light as he could manage.

Shedim turned abruptly back to the loom. The tension set her hunching like a puppet strung on iron wire. After a moment, she answered him.

"Gates are still closed," she said. "All of them. Manned, too. The traders are kicking up a hell of a fuss, but the duke's not bent yet."

"And the dock?"

"Chain's still up. People are starting to run through food stocks."

Subtlety sat back, and pushed the bubbling mix of fear and frustration in his stomach down.

"And the Copper Badges?"

 

It was the only delicate way to ask the question. They both knew the subtext; Tieflings made fine scapegoats in a city like this. It would be simpler to just drag up some unlucky Helltown devil and charge them, string them up outside the Ducal palace, and let justice be done. Even if they weren't guilty of the murder, they'd probably be guilty of something. Trade could start again. Money would change hands. People would _calm down._

Helltown had been full of copper badges since they'd closed the gates. Helltown Horns had been dragged away in chains day after day. And yet, still no trial. The Duke, for the first time in living memory, wanted the _right_ Tiefling at the gallows. Amazing how a personal tragedy can change one's viewpoint.

 

Shedim's voice was calm, and scrubbed of any emotion.

"They took two more last night."

"Who?"

"Mephistophiel and Busasejal. Out after curfew. Supposedly. Amazing how flexible that can be."

He didn't laugh at that. It wasn't that sort of joke.

"And... no-one's come back?"

"One," she said. Even less emotion coloured her tone. "Barachael."

Subtlety's ears pricked up. "...That's... that's good-"

"Returned for burial," she continued. "Which is good of them, I suppose. You'd think they'd just throw him on the refuse pile. But no. Sent him home. Knocked on Caim's door. You know Caim. Sweet girl. Worked with him in the tattoo parlour on Shemlen Street. Did you know they were married?"

 

This was dangerous ground. Shedim was taut with frustration now, just looking for a target. He couldn't afford to give her one. "No," he said, carefully.

"They were. Lovely affair. Hand fastening. A little poetry. I did it myself, very... very nice, it was. Very sweet." The kettle whistled behind him. Subtlety took it off the fire, and went looking for cups. Shedim didn't seem to notice, still talking, still not looking at him. "She couldn't recognise his face, it was so bruised. Swollen. Horns broken. One eye torn out of his head. And the teeth. You wouldn't think that was the worst of it, but somehow... broken. And not just knocked out, actually broken. They must have had tools, for that. How else could you-"

Her voice cracked. Subtlety watched her out of the corner of his eye. If they were anyone else, any other brother and sister, he'd have gone to her. Comforted her. But they weren't anyone else, and he stayed at the cupboards, looking for tea cups and hoping she'd stop talking.

 

Shedim's shoulders shook, once. Then stillness. Silence. Even the shuttle had stopped on the loom. Subtlety advanced, tea cup in front of him like a shield. She didn't take it from him. He set it down on the floor next to her. Filled it. Struggled for something to say.

"Are you sure it was him?" he asked, eventually. The best of a series of bad options. Shedim nodded.

"That was my first thought too," she said. "But- yes. The tattoos were right. A few of the horns he'd worked with confirmed it."

"Oh."

 

He sat back, and debated what to say next.

"Shed-"

"Don't. Please don't." She took the tea. Wiped her face. Turned back to him. Her face was as expressive as an iron mask. "You're a son of Helltown," she said. "And you've told me you didn't do what they want you for."

"I didn't."

"Yes, you said."

"...And you believe me."

The iron mask didn't move. "I believe that in this city, you'd never get a fair trial. I believe they'd string you up and leave you hanging as a warning to every other horn with the temerity to look at a human girl. And I believe I'm your shadewitch, so the rest of it's pretty fucking irrelevant."

 

She drank the tea, and turned back to the loom. That was the best he was going to get, it seemed. Subtlety withdrew back to the cupboards, and poured himself a cup. It tasted better than it smelled. Some strange emotion gnawed at him, and set him glancing back at Shedim over his shoulder. He couldn't put a name to it. He'd never been much of a shadewitch himself. The magic had come to him late, after he'd started his studies as a law clerk. And he'd always chafed at the weight it put on him; the stories, the weddings, the healing, the old women whose toenails needed clipping, the children delivered and the rooms tidied. And the names. Almost every horn in Helltown, he'd needed to know. Their fathers, their mothers.

Shedim had picked it up like it was nothing. On those long, dark nights, as their father taught them the craft of witching, she'd been happier than he'd ever seen her. And in the days, at the grubby, crowded schoolroom where sour-faced sisters of the dawnfather taught tiefling boys and girls how to read, write and 'rithmatic (and how to hate themselves for the sin of horns on their heads and demon's blood in their history), she'd giggled and whispered to every child around her-

_don't worry, horn-_

_don't listen to them-_

_we are the sons and daughters of shadows-_

_and we are beloved of the night_

Not Subtlety. He hadn't been good with people. Never quite had her ease with them. He'd tried, of course. But it hadn't stuck. But he'd been good at school, at least. Then. At last. A stroke of genius luck. A way out of Helltown without betraying his family. A lawyer's office was looking for clerks, he'd heard. The rumour was precious as liquid gold, dripping from ear to ear in the dark corners of the slum. He'd tracked the flow of it back to an old judge with a secret taste for Devil girls. He'd thought that was hard, at the time. But it had been easy compared to convincing the old bastard to give him a job. And even that was a trip through a pretty meadow next to convincing his father.

Days, it had taken, days he didn't have. Their father had a Helltowner's instinctive distrust of the law, and a shadewitch's memory of every wrong done to a tiefling by a human, in Gresit at least. He'd almost thrown Subtlety out of the house. Their mother-

No. Not here. Not relevant.

He'd talked the old man around, in the end. A Helltown lawyer, to advocate for them in the courts. That could be worth something, couldn't it? And Shedim was a better witch than he would ever be. They all knew that. This would be better. This would let him be useful.

 

And then, after that boulder at last was rolled up the hill, had begun the work. He'd known it would be difficult. At least, he'd thought he did. But he hadn't realised how difficult- how much those horns on his head would weigh him down. The taunts on the first day had set tears in his eyes. The second day, he'd vomited in the privy. But he went on. Worked hard, harder than the others, harder than anyone else in that entire damn office. Some of the older lawyers had even taken notice.

A Gresit Clerk can qualify for training in the law, with approval of his office, in two years.

He'd been there six before the subject was even raised. But he'd endured. Kept at it. And at last, the training was suggested. Offered, tentatively-

_He still remembered Old Master Fentworth taking him aside to make the offer- "wouldn't normally do this, young Baddon, but you're not a normal Tiefling, are you? Honest young lad. Can't see the harm." And the unconsidered insult had slipped past unremarked, like so many before it. It didn't matter. He'd won._

-And accepted. Worked as hard as he could, as hard as he knew how to work. His every thought was bylaws and affidavits, his dreams thick with legislation and the dust of ancient tomes of the law. He'd opened up his mind to Gresit's ancient legal tradition. Had filled himself with it. Dreamed of respect. Of serving Helltown from the noble courts. Defending his people, case after case, an honourable lawyer of Gresit. And oh, how he'd worked for that dream. The clothes he'd bought. The practice, day after day, to hone his speech, dropping the Helltown lilt for the flat broad tone of a Gresit lawmaker. The careful movements (they flinched when he went to quickly.) The work of days, to be palateable. All for the dream.

 

What a little fool he'd been.

There'd been a lawyer in the clerk's office. Young, by industry standards, at barely thirty. A skinny, bald-headed man, always dressed well, but soberly; good suits, simple cravats, wire-frame glasses perched on a sharp nose. Balding already. A rising star in the legal profession. His name was written on Subtlety's heart.

Plessy Corvin.

Plessy Godsdamned Corvin, esquire, if you please. A bleached ghost of a man, all colour and passion leached out of him by a life married to the law. The second son of some noble house. To this day, Subtlety didn't know whether to hate him or thank him. Probably both were justified. He'd taken him aside too, to a little side-office, closed the door, sat him down.

 

Treated him with respect.

 

"Your work's very acceptable," he'd begun. "Wouldn't have you think otherwise."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's important you keep that in mind. You've done exceptionally well. Given the circumstances."

"Yes."

"You know there's a position opening up soon. For a junior advocate. Talking to the juries."

"I do, sir. Yes. I've applied for it."

"Yes," said Corvin. "I know."

The silence had been... confusing. He'd seen something he almost recognised in the lawyer's face. Something familiar, and sad.

"You're good at speaking? Rhetoric, I mean?"

"Yes sir. I've practiced a great deal."

"Ah. Yes. Your... your training."

"Yes sir."

Corvin had put his hands on the desk and stood up. "No point beating about the bush. You won't be getting it."

The heavy weight of disappointment. But he'd pushed through. Thought of it as just one more thing to endure. "Of course sir. The other candidates are far more-"

"No. You misunderstand. It's a question of propriety."

"Sir?"

"Abaddon. I'm sorry. There's no way to say this gently. You're a tiefling. A sensible one, certainly. And a hard worker, there's no doubt about that. But still a tiefling. And we cannot have a tiefling lawyer. It would make a mockery of the whole affair."

It was the first time anyone had said it so honestly. "...Sir?"

"Your personal character is exceptional. That you've come so far in spite of your race... I mean, what else could I call it but miraculous? And you should be proud of that. But let's be honest. No court in the city would let a Devil- I'm sorry to use that word, but it's what they'd say- walk in and speak of law. Not when half the criminals we try are Devils themselves. Demonic blood, Abaddon. It will out, one way or another."

And on and on it had gone, the slow dismantling of the dream. Words cracking against him like hammers and chisels, carving away his illusions. Making him a sculpture of what he'd always been. Corvin had been as kind about it as possible. Made it clear Abaddon was welcome to keep clerking in the office. Even finish his training. It served people well in his position, after all, made it easier to notarise the paperwork.

Abaddon had felt himself unfreeze enough to speak.

"No thank you, sir. I think...I think I must resign. In- in the circumstances."

And Corvin had nodded. "Yes. Yes, I understand." Then, into the following silence, "I'm sorry no-one said anything sooner. Kept you from wasting your time."

Wasting his time. All those years. All that work. He'd felt himself nod in agreement. Later, after he'd finished packing up his desk, Corvin had brought him his pay- all he was due, plus a little extra in thanks for services rendered.

 

And he'd walked into the first bar he could find, and started to drink. Spat poison at his father and Shedim. Walked out of Helltown and the stinking taint of the place that had torn his dream away from him. Lost himself in Gresit's crooked underworld. Learnt how to talk his way into pretty girl's beds ( _"ever been with a devil, love? Fine way to spend a night.")_

A fine little thief, he'd made. A better conman. A perfect gigolo. Easy money in that. And fuck Helltown, and every horn in it. Fuck himself, too, for not understanding. Not knowing better. Fuck everything he saw, and the world he saw it in. Fuck every moment but right now.

 

Right now.

Where Helltowners were dying while his sister kept him safe. Where the tea stank of brimstone and brought up memories long buried. Where his niece and nephew lied for him at that little school each day, and risked death if their tongue slipped once.

That nameless feeling curdled hard in his gut. He ignored it, finished his tea. Shedim kept on at the loom.

"Are you going to stay up long?" He asked, to turn the conversation in a less dangerous direction.

"Yes. I want to finish this. The tailors order's due in a few days."

"They still want it?"

"They'd better. I need the money."

 

I sent her coin, he told the nameless feeling. That's something. "Fair enough. I'll sleep, then."

"Alright."

And that was that. He went back to the tiny room where they all slept, curled up next to his sleeping niece and nephew, and closed his eyes.  For hours, he lay there, chasing sleep. It never came. Too much in his head, too much motion and thought, wheeling back and forth.

 

He was still awake, then, when the curtain of beads clicked against each other again. A new voice, one he didn't recognise, gasping for breath.

"Lady Witch," panted the newcomer. A tiefling, assumedly, to address Shedim like that.

"It's late. I'm working-"

"They've taken Malphas."

Subtlety froze, all the way to his heart. The loom went silent.

A long moment.

"Are you sure?"

"I saw it. Four copper badges kicked in his door, dragged him out by the horns. Him and his girls."

 

His girls. Pretty, for their age. Twins. Fourteen.

Barachael's bloody, shattered face drifted through his mind. One empty eye socket staring at him. Barachael was a man, full grown. The girls were children.

Just devils, he told himself ruthlessly. They'd have ended up at the end of a noose anyway, like every other Helltown child. But the nameless feeling was heavy in him, now, clotting in his veins, running through every inch of him. He hated it.

 

Think. Think logically.

The copper badges are looking for you. Malphas is devoted to Shedim, but devoted men snap under torture as easily as any. Too risky to assume he won't break.

But. The badges tend not to waste effort. Torturers were costly men to pay, given the skill they had at the task. Malphas, right now, would be sitting in a cell, near enough to the interrogation rooms to hear the screams. His daughters too. They'd want the fear to sink in before they started, maybe  break them before they even started.

If they caught you now, while it's still early, they _might_ just let them go.

_(Barachael's face contorted. After a moment, Subtlety recognised a smile on a broken face.)_

But. It can't be here. If he was caught in Helltown, then all of Helltown would suffer.

Malphas would break eventually.

Malphas knew where he was.

If he stayed, they would catch him here.

He had to leave, therefore. Go as far as he could. Get across the city without being seen.

The city that even now was under curfew, with streets swarming with copper badge watchmen.

 

The nameless feeling shuddered. This was insane. He would die. He would die badly.

Next to him, Lamashtu rolled over in her sleep and yawned. He turned to look at her and her brother. Skins like him and Shedim, charcoal grey or black depending on how the light took them. Bulls horns. Faces gentle and innocent in sleep.

Fuck it.

 

The window moved open in total silence. He was perched on the ledge in moments, feeling cool night air against his skin.

"Subtlety?"

Shedim was watching him from the doorway, face unreadable. He turned and smiled at her, wicked and amused.

"When they grow up, get them to kill a lawyer for me," he said. "That should put a smile on my cadaver."

And then he was gone, out into the street, pulling shadows out of his soul.

***

 

He'd remember that night for the rest of his life. Out of Helltown, first, exquisitely careful- he couldn't be seen, couldn't even risk the possibility of it. Even the suggestion of his presence would rain the Duke's wrath down on every Tiefling in Gresit for years to come. He'd been careful- beyond careful, darting from shadow to shadow with every ounce of speed and silence he had in him. So many ways it could go wrong. So many watchmen on every street. And yet, some God had smiled on him, and he'd found himself out in the city proper.

Not bad. But not the end.

He'd carried on, still as close to silent as he could manage, as close to invisible, keeping to the back street s and alleys. Gresit was riddled with crooked roads for a wise crook to hide in. He knew every godsdamned one. And the shade magic of his blood was shuddering, now, clinging to him like a second skin. Hiding him.

_The sword and shield of my people. Their friend in bad times and good._

 

Halfway, now. He needed to reach the Eastern gate. It was as far from Helltown as he could get. And better yet, it would be manned.

But there was no way to cross the boulevard through his little side streets. The great open road bisected all of Gresit. His magic snapped and crackled in agitation. He whispered soothing words in Infernal. After a moment, it stilled, but he could feel the exhaustion running through it, echoed in his legs. There was no help there. He didn't have much left.

He could spend it here, now. But a picture had formed in his head; him at the Eastern gate, throwing sorcerous fire at copper badges. He liked that picture. If he was going to sacrifice himself for every stupid devil in Helltown, he was at least going out with a bang. He'd have to cross naturally. The shadows around his twitched again, as if ready to object. Then they shuddered and dispersed, flowing back down Subtlety's throat.

 

Time to go.

He glanced in either direction down the boulevard. Copper badges. Less than in Helltown, but still enough to make this difficult. But perhaps...

He snuck back down his alley, and glanced around. A ladder ran up to the roof of the high boarding house on his left. He climbed up, pulled the ladder up after him.

He closed his eyes. Every tiefling has a little magic, separate to anything else. A power to bang doors, darken rooms, speak with the voice of devils and gods. Parlour tricks. But parlour tricks were useful, if you knew how to play them right. In the alley down below, a woman's voice rang out in a horrified scream. The copper badges' heads snapped around. They came flooding down the alley, swords drawn. The scream rang out again, further down the alley. They piled after it.

Subtlety fought down a laugh. Gods. These people could be far too easy to fuck with. He dropped the ladder down the front of the boarding house, slid down it, and sprinted across the Boulevard. Not the most elegant escape, but more than good enough.

 

And then back to running, hiding, _flowing_ across the city. Easier, now. Being seen was inevitable. He didn't bother being afraid of it. Didn't bother being afraid of anything, caught up completely in the physical thrum of the run. His brain was a perfect circle, repeating over and over, _almost there, almost there, almost there..._

 

And then at last he could see it. The Eastern gate. Heavy with golden light from the torches, the thoroughfare crammed with copper badges. A thought presented itself in the back of his head-

_I'm going to die_

-but he couldn't stop, or he'd lose his nerve. Keep going. FIGHT the bastards. He skidded to a halt in the heart of the street, caught in the torchlight. The watchmen turned, saw him, started to shout.

The grin was on his face again. "Gentlemen! What a lovely surprise!" He said, voice light and charming and full of homicidal glee. The shadows burst out of him in a torrent of blackness, shapes cut out of the world. This felt good. This felt perfect.

 

He lashed out. A fireball came screaming out of the darkness and splashed against the great wooden doors of the gate. There was a great, echoing roar, and then the door was gone. Subtlety filled his hands with knives, and started towards the watch. They were on the ground, most of them. Those that weren't stared at the flaming wreckage of the gate. His blades tore at their exposed throats, their bellies, their faces and eyes. He heard their screams, and exulted.

 

Then-

-something he didn't understand, something cold and powerful-

-his shadows howled, suddenly, and were gone-

-an awful crack-

-pain-

 

And Subtlety remembered nothing more.

 


	8. Vivi

** CHAPTER EIGHT **

** VIVI **

My name is Vivi.

There is something wrong with me.

That is not what Sharla Ruth would say. She would think it. But she would never let it pass her lips. I think she is afraid of what I would do. I tried to tell her, once, that it was alright. That I understood.

 

"Sharla Ruth," I had said. She had looked up from lunch. It was a steak. "I understand."

"Understand what?" She had asked. There was an odd quirk to her face. I had been too vague. I tried again.

"I understand that I am wrong-"

"What? What do you- Vivi, there's nothing wrong with you." She seemed very agitated. I tried again.

"I understand that I confuse you, then. I understand that I make things complicated for you."

"You don't-"

If I let her speak she would have confused herself again. "I do. The people at the Compass Rose said I could not come with you if you went to the other planes."

She looked uncomfortable. "That's... true, but that's not your fault."

"I know. But it is true."

"Yes, but-"

"And you like going to the other planes."

"I like being with you more," she said quickly. I do not think she was telling the truth. But I do not think if I told her that, she would like it. So I said "thank you" instead.

"You're welcome."

 

"You could leave me, if you wanted," I said. I did not want to say it, but I like Sharla Ruth, and I do not want her to be sad. She stopped moving when I said that. "I know how to fight. I am very good at it. I am sure, if I went and worked for the town guard here, or in Westruun, or somewhere like that, they would pay me some money.  I could have a house. I could buy food. It would be fine."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said quickly. She was thinking about whatever it is that is wrong with me. I had to be more clear.

"I am sure it would be fine, " I said. "And you could go to the other planes. I do not want you to be stuck here if you do not want to be stuck here."

Sharla Ruth looked at me for a long time, and then she came around the table and gave me a hug. I liked it. I do not like it when most people touch me, but it is alright when she does it as long as it is a hug.

"I know, Vivi," she said, very quietly. "Thank you. But I'd rather be here with you."

I was very glad she said that, but I wanted her to be sure.

"Are you sure?"

And she said "yes" and then we finished lunch. I had some beer afterwards, which was nicer than the beer they have in Westruun.

 

I like Sharla Ruth. She understands whatever it is that is wrong with me, but she is staying with me and she makes sure I don't do anything wrong.

I do not always understand what is wrong and what is not.

I think that is because of the mask.

 

When I was younger, I lived in a room with a man. He never told me his name. Sharla Ruth has offered to tell me, now, but I do not see the point. He is dead now. It does not really matter what his name was.

The man did not always live in the room. He would come and go. To start with, he only taught me some very simple things- how to eat with a knife and fork, how to clean myself, how to go to the toilet, how to put on clothes, how to read and write, how to do addition and subtraction and multiplication and division.

But he did something else I did not understand. He would put an animal in front of me, and tell me to kill it. And I said no. I did not want to kill the animal. So he told me if I did not kill the animal, he would punish me for doing the wrong thing. I still did not want to kill the animal. So he punished me, and hit me, until I killed the animal. Then he asked me why I did not kill the animal straight away. I told him because it was bad. He told me that was not true. That it was just killing. That it did not mean anything.

The next time he brought me another animal. I still did not want to kill the animal, but I did not want him to punish me and hit me, so I killed it. He was very pleased. He would bring me lots of animals. Sometimes they were small and fluffy and sometimes they were scaly and one of them was a dog (he told me later that it was called a dog and he made me spell it out D-O-G) and one of them was a cat (C-A-T) and at the end one of them was a man (M-A-N) and the man (the one who was an animal) said please don't kill me but the man who lived in the room said to do it so I killed him.

I killed the man who was an animal.

I was six.

That used to make me a little sad, but the man who lived in the room helped me understand killing is just a thing you could do and it did not mean anything. And I understood eventually that was true. And then I stopped feeling sad.

 

Later, the man who lived in the room brought in another man. This man had a name. It was Kray. Kray was taller than the man, but only a little bit, and he had long arms and legs and a beard with braids in it and long hair like me. He had green eyes and blue skin and he looked at me for a long time.

Then he asked the man if I spoke common, and I said I did. The man said Kray was here to teach me how to use swords. Kray said that was not true. He was going to see if I even could use swords at all, or if I was just a stupid clumsy mark. I said I was not a mark. I was getting angry, but the man told me that mark was just a word and it didn't mean anything and I remembered how nothing meant anything and I calmed down.

 Kray laughed at me after I calmed down. Then he said he was going to take a stick and try and hit me with it, and I was supposed to stop him. He did not tell the truth. He had two sticks, and one of them was longer than the other. So I started by running away, but then he hit me on the back and said don't turn around and it hurt.

 

And I was getting angry again but then I remembered it was just pain and it didn't mean anything. So we started again and I didn't turn around. And when Kray tried to hit me I stepped back, and I got down low, and the longer stick went over my head and the shorter stick only grazed me.

Kray kept trying to hit me. Sometimes he did. Then he stopped and said I was not altogether awful and he would be back. Then he left and he and the man were talking outside the door and I don't know what they said. Then the man came back in with a pig for me to kill to show I understood it didn't mean anything and some chicken and potatoes for dinner. We ate that and it was nice.

Kray taught me how to fight with swords like him. He told me he used to be a soldier and now he had some friends who helped him make money. I said okay. He taught me a lot about swords. Most people only fight to cut, he said, or to damage someone, but you have to fight to hurt. That was the trick. I said doesn't damage mean hurt and he said no. Sometimes you can hurt someone really badly without damaging them at all. Sometimes you can hurt someone just by looking at them right. Fear is a kind of hurt, after all.

He asked if that bothered me. I said no, because it didn't mean anything. He said that was good, and that attitude would take me far in life.

 

I remember all of this.

 I remember how Kray argued with the man.

I remember how Kray told the man that I'd help out or I'd go home, it was up to him.

I remember the mask. The mask must be why something is wrong with me.

 

Kray said sometimes his friends needed someone who was good with swords to help them. He said my exam would be helping them kill some people who had taken something. I said okay. The man who lived in the room gave me the mask, and he said I could never take it off or there would be trouble. So I put on the mask, and it was very cold. And then I helped Kray's friends, and I killed a lot of people and that made Kray happy.

I didn't feel anything. It didn't mean anything.

 

And then Ruth came and so did the other Explorators and they killed Kray and his friends. And I took off the Mask.

I wasn't supposed to take off the Mask. I was surprised, because Sharla Ruth can do magic and I had never seen magic up close before. And Sharla Ruth said she used to be a friend of the man who lived in the room. She told me to put my swords down. And I tried to kill her, but I couldn't because she was better at magic than I was at swords and I thought she was going to kill me and I knew that it didn't matter because dying didn't mean anything.

But she just took my swords and hugged me and said it would be alright. And I took off my mask.

I think that must be why something is wrong with me.

 

Since I took off the mask I have had the dreams. To start with, I thought the dreams were what is wrong with me. But Sharla Ruth said that they are actually perfectly normal, and that people like me are supposed to have dreams.

I have never met someone like me. I would like to. Sharla Ruth said that they would have had dreams since they started growing up from being young. I would like to know what that is like. I would like to know who the person in their dreams is, and whether their person is nice.

 

It was late, after we had had lunch. Sharla Ruth had gone to bed. I was still awake in my room in the inn, looking out the window. When I was younger after I had first met Sharla Ruth she used to sleep in the same room as me because there is something wrong with me. But now she lets me sleep in the room on my own. I like it better this way because I can go to sleep when I want to and when I don't want to I can wait as long as I like. I can read a book or I can look out of the window.

I was looking out of the window. We had been in Kymal for a few days. There was a lot of fog, and I could not see much. I could only just see a little of the stars, and the light from the casino was making that very hard because it shone through the fog and made it look like it was glowing. I had to lean forward and squint a bit.

The lady in the inn had brought me some water, and I had some of my steak left from lunch so she had brought me some bread and butter so I could have a sandwich which was nice. I was eating my steak sandwich and drinking my water and looking out the window and I felt...

I felt...

 

It was silly. I knew it didn't mean anything. Not really. But I felt safe. And I felt like all the confusion about what was wrong with me had gone away, and all the anger about not knowing what it was that was wrong with me had gone away.

It felt like I had gone away, and all that was left was the light from the corridor under my door, and the water and the steak sandwich and the fog that looked like it was glowing and the stars, somewhere up in the sky.

I liked that it felt like that. I wanted to keep feeling like that, everything still with no thoughts in my head.

But I fell asleep, and I started dreaming, and I didn't feel like that any more.

 

Sharla Ruth explained why I dreamt once. She said I was an Aasimar, and that meant that there had been an angel from another Plane called Mount Celestia that had come and had sex with someone in my family. Only she didn't say it like that. She said about the angel and then about my family but she got confused and started stuttering and didn't look at my eyes until I got fed up and just asked if she meant sex and she went bright red and said yes.

And then that person had had a child. And that child had grown up and had a child. And then that child had grown up and had a child. All the way down to me. And then the bit of angel that was in all of us turned on in me and because of that I had the dreams. I asked why. She said because angels are very careful about having sex with humans, because it means they need a person who is mostly human but with a bit of angel in them. That person can do things the angel can't, because they're mainly mortal so they can interfere sometimes, but they have a link with angels because they're a little bit angel.

 

After I fell asleep I dreamt. I met the person in my dreams again.

We were standing on a road, somewhere far away. The person in my dreams is an angel called Dumah. He doesn't say anything. I know he is called Dumah though because it is a dream and you do not need someone to speak to know what they are saying or what their name is. Dumah has green skin and long dark green hair and green eyes and no lips. That is because he is the angel of silence. I think that is a very sensible way to be if you are the angel of silence, especially since angels do not have to eat.

The road was very wide. I could not see where it came from, or where it was going, or what was on either side of it. I could just see the road, and the sky. The road was made of earth that had been baked in the sun and trampled down by feet and hooves and cartwheels for a very long time until it became a road.

Dumah was looking at me in the dream. He always looks at me, before he shows me things. I do not like it very much, because he always looks so sad and I think it is because there is something wrong with me and he is thinking about what I would be like if I was normal. I told him to stop staring. He did not. I told him that if he did not stop staring I would cut open his stomach with a diagonal cut from left hip to right rib. That cut is the best because it's a rising cut with the long sword. You put the short sword in a reverse grip, tip pointing back along your forearm for hooking any ripostes, and that protects you. As long as you're protected, you can do big cuts with the long sword that someone just using one sword could not do.

 

 wanted. But I also felt angry, because I had made Dumah even more sad than usual. If there was not something wrong with me then I would know what to say to make him stop staring but not make him sad. And that made me feel angry at Dumah for making me feel that way, even though I knew that it was not his fault, and that made me feel angry at me for having something wrong with me, and I would have kept going feeling angrier and angrier until I went mad. But I reminded myself that it didn't matter because it didn't mean anything. And then Dumah pointed at something and I had to think about something else.

There were hundreds of thousands of carts coming down the road towards us. They had faces painted on them. One of them was black, and fire was coming out of the back of it, and I could hear birds chattering inside, and the face on the front was Sharla Ruth. Another was very big, and painted in white and black designs and was full of tea and spices and that was Mr Bangan from the Kymal campus of the Compass Rose. All of the carts were different, and had different faces on them, and all of them were people. I did not know all of the people. I suppose they were all the different people in Kymal.

Then Dumah pointed again, and this time I looked at one particular cart that looked normal, except there was someone inside. The person inside looked wrong. They were wearing grey clothes made out of sealskin with gloves and a hooded jerkin with the hood pulled up and boots so I could not see them, but there was something horrible coming out from under the clothes that looked like oil or like black paint or really horrible grease. The clothes had little lumps under them that were moving around, like the person was only holding their shape because of their clothes.

The person was filling the inside of the cart with the horrible stuff. They were touching the face on the front of the cart, and the stuff was dripping into the face's eyes and mouth. The cart was going where the person wanted. Dumah pointed at another cart. The same person was in that one too, and that one was also filled with stuff. I started to look at all the carts, and I saw that the person was in lots of them. I do not think the person was supposed to be there. I do think the person was a person at all.

 

Then I recognised one of the carts with the person in. It was Mr. Johen, who had gone very quiet at the compass rose when I started to explain lateral decapitation strikes and how you had to account for vertebrae. Mr Johen had a person in his cart, but the person had not touched his face. The person was kneeling down whispering to Mr Johen's face on the cart, but it was not filling the cart with stuff or pouring it into his mouth or eyes. Then Mr Johen's cart went towards another cart. The person in Mr Johen's cart looked at the other cart, and then it vomited.

 

It was horrible. There was all the horrible black stuff pouring out of the person's mouth, and landing in the other cart. Then, out of the black stuff, another person stood up. Although it was not quite like standing up- it was like the black stuff was a hole in the world, and they were crawling through the hole and putting on the sealskin clothes to hide them and get in the cart so they could be in charge of it. So they could put their hands on the face, and put that awful black stuff in their mouth and eyes, and be in charge of it. And Mr Johen had let the people do it.

I had liked Mr Johen, even if I do not think he had liked me. But he had chosen to go towards the other cart.

He had chosen to let the person in his cart jump to another one.

 

I do not think I was supposed to think that, because then the new person in the cart looked up. I do not know if it had eyes, but I know it was looking at me. I do not think it liked what it saw. It made a kind of screaming noise. All of the other people started looking at me too, and they also started screaming. The noise was horrible. It was like someone had taken a window and tore it in half without letting it shatter, so it had to feel itself doing something that it was not supposed to do ever ever ever. The people all touched the faces again, and poured more of the black stuff into eyes and mouths.

All of the carts turned towards me. I turned to look for Dumah. He was staring at me again, and I could see that he was not sad now- he wanted me to understand. I said we had better run, but he didn't move. The carts were coming towards us very quickly now. I did not have my swords. I pulled at Dumah to make him run away, but he did not move and the carts were on top of us and they would crush us under their wheels and-

 

It is normally good to wake up from a dream. The ones I get can make me very scared or angry or sad or sometimes all of them at once. I would have been very happy to wake up from this one, but there was someone in my room and they had a knife.

Also, I had seen their face on the cart in the dream that Mr Johen had put one of the people in. The person was drawing a knife and making a noise- a kind of whine like a dog but longer and sharper in my ear so it hurt.

They saw me wake up. The whine became a noise like a scream. They jumped.

 

When Kray was teaching me swords, he had started to sneak up on me while I was asleep, or at my lessons with the man who lived in the room. Never be without your blades, girl, he had said the first time. There will always be a time when you're vulnerable, no matter what you think. Someone will turn on you. Someone will sell you out. So never- be- without- your- fucking- blades. Alright?

Alright.

My swords were beside the bed, leaned against the bedframe, right next to my hands. I had the short sword halfway out of its sheath before the other person landed. Didn't bother with the long sword. Room was too tight, no room to swing it.

 

Thing about a knife- bastard thing to parry. Short blade means it's easy to position, dart around a longer weapon. Plus, usually still long enough to penetrate flesh to a fatal degree. Couldn't parry, therefore. But attack first?

short sword half way out of its sheath. Turned, pointed it towards the person. Lashed out. Sheath came away in my hand, jabbed into their gut. The whine turned into a gust, air out of lungs- still had the knife. Ducked sideways, rolled back towards the door. Up. Turn. Short sword in right hand to lead, sheath in left- beating and jabbing, some redirection.

 

The person was a man. Could see that now. Wiry man. Bearded. Eyes wild. Mouth twisted, baring very white teeth. Spittle dripping from the mouth.

Wondered if the person inside even knew what they were doing, now.

Stop daydreaming, is what Kray would say.

Yes Kray.

 

Person advanced again, more cautious now. Lashed out at my face. Swayed back, sent the sheath into their wrist. Pushed his bladehand over to the left. Momentum dragged him away, staggering.

Hit him again with the sheath, back of the shoulder. Heard a crunch. He snarled, dropped the knife-

-yes-

snatched it out of the air with his other hand, kept on twisting-

coming back at me with the blade, clever of him, but left his back open-

 

put the short sword through his spine. Some resistance; cartilage is difficult, and a short sword is not optimised for stabbing, even if you know what you're doing with it. Then the easier flesh of the lungs, nowhere near strong enough to stop a blade. Maybe nick the heart, angle's a little off. Avoid the ribs, no give, put the tip between them.

He gasped. A kind of creaking noise people make, when you go through the back.

Then he did something unexpected. Dying already. Legs going dead like falling trees. And yet the arm lashes out still, knife reaching for my face.

I let go, leant back. The angle was wrong, anyway, and he was halfway dead. After a moment he choked on his own blood.

 

It was less than a minute since I woke up. He was already dead. The noise must have woke the house. I could hear people moving around in other rooms and making noises. I did not want them to bother me, so I wiped my sword on the dead man and put it back in its sheath. Then I got my long sword, and belted them to my hips. I went down the hall to Sharla Ruth's room, and knocked on her door.

She was already awake. I only managed one knock before she opened the door. Her face was very pale in the dark, and the light from her flaming hair made her look like a torch.

"Vivi, what in all the hells-"

Speak quickly, or she will get confused. "There was a man in my room. I had been dreaming, and Dumah was warning me that there were people coming to hurt me. The man had a knife, and he jumped at me. I killed him."

Her face went even paler. "You- what?"

"I'll show you."

 

I went back to my room and held the door open for her. She was flustered, I could see, and angry and frightened. Then she saw the body, and stopped moving again.

"...Vivi, are you- are you sure he-"

I pointed to the knife in his hand. Sharla Ruth looked at it.

"Okay. Okay." She took a very deep breath. "Go to my room. I'll talk to the landlady-"

"There are more."

"-see if I can explain what happened- what?"

"There are more. In the dream, Dumah showed me more."

Sharla Ruth was staring at me.

"...How many?"

I didn't know, so I told her. She cursed. Then she looked out the window, and cursed some more.

 

"What is it?" I asked her, feeling very confused. She pulled me over to show me. The fog had cleared up- a lovely clear night. The Kymal campus of the Compass Rose was burning.


	9. Various

** CHAPTER NINE **

** VARIOUS **

 

**BANGAN**

It was late. He was tired. His face, of course, showed nothing- the years of service had taught him the calm stillness a good servant required. He'd be damned if he let that crack now. And besides, Doctor Lenara would be off campus soon. Ambassador Hama had already left. Things would be simple enough after that.

There was a fish pie waiting for him, at least. The Caldecot inn was a favourite with the casino's patrons. They stayed open all night, and they knew to keep something for Bangan on his night shifts. A fish pie, a little ale, and then sleep. Something to look forward to. He settled in for another hour of considered repose, and waited.

 

**LANARA**

It should not be so hard to pick an assistant, yet here she was, long after leaving, glaring at her notes and wishing she could make a decision. They were all so... so young. That was the worst of it. So young and so eager. To pick one was to sentence herself to the broken heart and puppy dog eyes of the others. She didn't know if she had it in her to handle that. Saying no to Ruth had been hard enough, and Ruth had been genuinely wrong. How in any god's name was she supposed to tell someone she'd been herself not so long ago?

This... this was pointless. Worse, she knew it. The longer she stayed here, glaring at paperwork, the angrier and more exhausted she'd get, and the further she'd be from an answer. No. Home. Home to bed, and then decide tomorrow over coffee what she wanted. Resolved, she gathered up her papers and headed for the door.

 

It was locked.

 

Lanara blinked in surprise. She didn't remember locking her office door. It must be later than she thought. She rattled the door knob again to be sure it wasn't stuck, then started searching for her key. It must still be on her desk somewhere. She started fumbling through the papers stacked high on the desk. Somewhere. Somewhere around here...

 

**THE WOMAN**

She did not have a name. Those who had served from birth did need such frivolities. And she had. Her mother had born the sacrament of the holy passenger. Her father had been a priest to it. Names had been irrelevant in such a family. It mattered only how you served.

 

She turned away from the office door, flexing her fingers slowly as she did so. The magic had settled in well on the lock, now- that should keep the doctor from interfering. But it still left the Goliath. There was no magic for something like him. The Lord Director had given her a simpler solution. Six stilettos and a wonderfully aggressive poison. She started down the labyrinthine corridors of the campus, slow and silent, and held a grin down.

 

She had prayed so long for vengeance. And here it was, at last.

 

**DARGHARVIS**

"Ruth, though?"

It was going to be that sort of night, he just knew it. Still, at least they'd brought his pay. "Yes," said Dargharvis, teeth gritted but tone as close to even as he could manage. "Ruth. She'd make more sense for this work."

The Reverend gave him a dubious look. This was not in itself unusual; this was the holy city of Vasselheim, Dargharvis was a wizard, do the math. But he really wasn't in the mood for another lecture on arcane Explorators. This was a pointless argument and he didn't have the time for it.

"I can't shapeshift. Not in any reasonable sense. Ruth can. I don't understand druidcraft- which is understandable, because I'm _not a druid._ Ruth _is._ This will be useful in the Feywilds."

"Yes, yes," said the old priest, irritably waving the explanation aside. "I'm not arguing her qualifications. It's her temperament. Girl ran away from her duties."

 

Dargharvis took a calming breath. "There are enough Ashari watching the rifts," he said, carefully judging his tone. "I'm sure they can manage without one. I should also point out her _entire career since then,_ Reverend."

"Ran off to a lot of worlds we didn't send her to," growled the old man.

"And brought back artefacts and records by the dozen. She's an Explorator. What more do you want?"

The reverend grumbled inaudibly and went back to his desk. "Didn't send her off," he muttered eventually. Dargharvis gave him a dry look.

"Reverend. There are a limited number of Explorators in the prime material. The one currently available is Ruth. It'll be a short jump, which is perfect for her at the moment. It will also require someone who can go unnoticed when necessary- which she can- with immense combat capability- which she has. This plays to every single one of her strengths, and doesn't engage any of her weaknesses. Even if this wasn't true, let me again stress that she is _the only Explorator available._ "

 

The Reverend harrumphed irritably. "There's you," he said. Dargharvis shrugged.

"There is, but I'm engaged on another Ordial plane location attempt-"

"Everlight's tender mercies, _it's a myth-"_

"-and as a result can't take anything that would interfere with that," he finished, ignoring the glare he got. The priest bit down a snarl, and turned away to stare out the window. Dargharvis smirked. The reverend was wrong, and they both knew it. The only reason he was even fighting was because Ruth upset him for some godsforsaken reason. But it didn't matter. This would end soon enough.

 

"Dargharvis," asked the old man, suddenly, "What's that outside?"

 

**BANGAN**

The front door creaked open. Bangan straightened imperceptably. "I'm sorry, sirs, but the Campus is closing-" he began-

and

then

exploded into motion. The stilleto flickered over his head and embedded itself into the wall with a shuddering thunk. There was a snarl of frustration. Bangan's hands closed on the shaft of the axe beneath his desk. He'd show them frustration. He lunged with shocking grace for a man so big and swung the huge blade in a lethal arc.

The woman was already moving, leaping up over him to land on the desk. The men behind her didn't seem to notice any of this. They lined up at the desk, eyes strangely blank, and watched the woman.

 

She didn't bother acknowledging them. Seemed this would be a polite affair. He could appreciate that. Still, starting from behind like that?

"Do you have an appointment?" he asked, rising up into a more settled stance. "We're close to closing time."

"Kill you, Rose," she growled in response.

"Yes, I gathered that, but we try to keep things orderly around here-"

 

She lunged, two new stilettos in each hand. Bangan smirked, stepped forward, and lashed out with the axe. If the stupid bitch wanted to hand him a decapitation, he'd take it. The blade hummed through the air towards her neck.

She twisted, somehow, in mid air. The blade went past.

Shit.

Her stilettos came down towards his face. He pulled hard, brought the axe back into his hands, and thrust _up,_ catching her wrists on the haft. Not the best trick in the world, he thought as her body slammed into his chest, but it'd do in the circumstances. She bounced off him, stumbled as she hit the floor but kept her feet. He swung the axe again, trying to press the advantage. She ducked- give her this, she recovered quickly- and stabbed at him with the stilettos.

 

Bangan swayed back. The tips of the blades traced the edges of his arm. Bad form, that. If he'd been younger she wouldn't have touched him. Still. Didn't matter. He brought the axe around again, spaced his hands on the haft to take advantage of a miss and keep her from hitting him. She darted back again. Surprising. He expected her to try and close on him, keep him from swinging again, not-

There was a strange heaviness in his arms as he swung again. The arc was clumsy this time, slower than it should have been. He frowned, tried to focus, and stepped forward for another swing. This time, the woman didn't even bother swinging. The axe clattered off the ground as he stumbled over his own feet.

Bangan couldn't remember falling, or when it had gotten so cold. The woman was moving towards him, slow as molasses. Smiling at him. His axe. Needed to reach for his axe.

She bent at the waist, and put her lips by his ear. "Told you I would kill you, Rose," she whispered. And then she put her stiletto through his head.

 

**LANARA**

The key. She couldn't find the key. This was just embarrassing. Lanara growled with irritation. Locked in her own bloody office. She'd have to find another way out- waiting for Bangan would leave her here all night. He was careful about decorum at the best of times.

She glanced at the small high window. If she climbed out, she could go around the front and explain the situation. Not the most dignified way of handling things, but it'd do in a pinch. She pulled her chair out from behind her desk and set it beneath the window. Honestly, this was so... student. It was the only word for it. Best get it over with quickly. If Ruth was still in town, she'd at least have someone to laugh about it with later.

 

Lanara put her hands against the window and pushed. But no. Of course the bloody thing was jammed. She shouldn't be surprised; she'd never opened the damn thing as long as she'd been here, and it was a fair bet her predecessor hadn't either.

Perhaps she could break it? But then she'd have to tell Bangan. Worse, she'd have to explain why. It was silly, of course, to be afraid of the doorman and head of service, but somehow the thought of telling that massive, craggy, _disapproving_ face that she'd broken a window because she didn't want to wait for him made her quail a bit inside. No. No, that wouldn't do.

That was what Lanara was thinking when the door clicked unlocked. It was still halfway in her mind when she turned to see who was at it.

 

It was the last thought she'd ever have, as the woman moved across the space between them like something cold, hungry and very lethal, stilettos in each hand, and carved open her throat with violent glee.

 

**DARGHARVIS**

He looked up, brow furrowing, as the window and the Reverend vanished in a sudden torrent of violent white light. It lifted him up and flung him through the door. Dazed and half conscious in the chaos after the explosion, lungs grasping for air, ears ringing, he came to an awful conclusion.

This was honestly the shittest day he had in a while.

 

He pulled air into his chest. Coughed. Murmered an incantation. Something shimmered into life around his body. Dargharvis plastered on an angry grin and dragged himself to his feet. In the wreckage of the office (the otherwise-obscuring wall had been conveniently removed by an explosion- shocking, isn't it), someone was rising to their feet. They were clad head to foot in heavy platemail, all of it the dull grey of unpolished iron and studded with strange runes, blazing with sorcerous fire. At their full height, they were head and shoulders taller than he was.

There was thudding feet behind him. He risked a glance back. The faces that met him were blank, less calm than empty, and very clearly not reinforcements.

Yup. Definitely the shittest day.

 

The Explorator reached down to his belt, unhooked his spell component pouch, and slipped his fingers inside. Sulphur. Where had he put the fucking... there.

"Don't suppose any of you fancy surrendering?" he muttered. The hulking figure in armour took a great, lumbering step towards him.

"Didn't think so." His hand snapped forward, crushing the sulphur between his fingertips. The resultant explosion of magic and fire was, he had to admit, pretty fucking impressive. It surged across the gap between them and hit the figure in the chest. It vanished beneath the hungry flames.

That'd do. Time to move on to-

The blank faced men and women behind him hadn't moved. Weren't looking at him. He twisted his hands in preparation for another spell.

Clank.

He froze. Oh shit. Turned to look over his shoulder. The armoured figure, slightly singed but unhurt, advanced on him.

Dargharvis growled. Alright. This... was going to be complicated.


	10. Sharla Ruth

** CHAPTER TEN **

** SHARLA RUTH **

The fire was already reaching up the side of the building when she got there in a flurry of feathers and trailing flames. She landed on human feet, shapeshifting in mid air, stumbled a little from the momentum-

and stared.

The fire climbed like ivy up the side of the building. Smoke had crowned it with a flower of thick black smoke, pluming up into the clouds. The heat of it licked out against her skin and hair like a friendly dog. Some part of her recognised that affection.

 

"Ruth!"

Verist, dropping out of an all-out sprint, staggered next to her, hands on knees, panting. "I saw the- the flames," he gasped. "Is- anyone-"

She didn't answer. Just saw Lanara's face. "Vivi's coming," she snapped, pulling off her coat and mask. "Keep her outside."

"What? Wait, no-"

 

Too late. Ruth put her fist through a window. The fire inside roared happily at her. She tilted her head under its reach, then flung herself in as it calmed down.

Before she landed, she was a raven again, desperately trying to navigate the air (thick with updrafts and thermals). Bangan's desk was a splintered wreck. Bangan himself was dead, one hand outstretched for his axe. He looked confused and furious, all at the same time. She felt her heart seize up at that. This wasn't how it was supposed to end, for him. Not for dignified, careful Bangan, with his meticulously clean suits and his careful manners.

No. She couldn't think about that now. Too much to do. The doors into the building proper yawned open. Ruth flew inside, twisting and struggling with the writhing air. This was wrong. The fire was too... too careful, here- there was an untouched path along the corridor. It should be covering every inch of the ground, devouring the wood, not-

 

There was a twitch of movement at the far end of the hall. She shifted mid-air, landed on human legs, snatched her spell focus from her belt and sprinted after it. For a moment she lost it in the flames, but then- there! A black cloak, whipping through a door. She followed.

The Explorator's bar was charred black where it wasn't burning and a furious inferno where it was. The oak panels and dark red leather seats blazed with unseemly merriment. The bottles had cracked and split, their contents feeding flames, blue now, red, green, purple.

In the centre of the room stood five men, faces entirely blank and still. Their hands were linked. The air was heavy with the taste of magic- the rough burn of bad whiskey, curdled milk, the tang of blood and iron.

 

Johen stood in the centre of the circle, chanting with the men. His hands were moving back and forth from skull to skull. With each touch, the men in question would shudder like leaves in a storm. When he moved away, they would stand just a little less straight, their faces a little more haggard. Johen was grinning.

"Ruth," he murmered. "My darling. How good of you to come."

"Johen," said Ruth, and stopped. What else, honestly, could she say?

"Did you meet my friend? The one I sent to solve your problem?" His hands were still moving, touching, taking _something..._ Then the words settled into her head, and suddenly she found it hard to pay attention to anything but him.

"What?"

"He should have been already. You mentioned she was a bother to Lanara, so I thought I'd help you out," said Johen, briefly.

The man in Vivi's room...

"You bastard," she growled.

"She killed him then? What a pity." He could have been talking about the weather. "Still, it doesn't matter. I'll fix it for you later."

 

That was more than she could take. Ruth spat a curse at him, magic crackling on her lips. Lighting seared through the air, snatching at Johen's face. Inches away, it stopped. Johen's grin widened. One of the muttering, hunched men shuddered again. His voice cracked with pain, and electrical burns yawned open across his face and back. Still he kept chanting.

"No need for that," said Johen. He sounded hurt, but the smile didn't move. "I was just trying to help."

"Johen, what the fuck have you done?"

At last, the smile disappeared, replaced by something strange and contemplative. "Good question," he mused, considering. "Good question indeed, Ruth. I suppose in the end it comes down to... retribution."

She tensed. He hadn't attacked yet- that didn't mean he wouldn't. "For what?"

 

"For _everything._ " His face sharpened and froze around the last word, pulling malice out of him in heavy waves. "Every damn thing. What they did to me, to start with. What they did to them. And what they did to it."

It. Ruth felt a chill run down her spine.

"What it would that be?" she asked, carefully.

Instantly, he calmed. Smiled again, an uncomfortably familiar leer. "Oh, come now. No need for us to be silly. It, Ruth. It. The Passenger."

 

 A memory flickered. Someone screaming. A child's face looking up at her, eyes empty, devoid of anything like hope.

"...Johen-"

"It's still here, you see," he continued. "We thought we'd got it all, I know, but it's still here. They kept it. They," and here he pointed at the blank-faced men, "survived. You remember them, don't you?"

 

A child's face, blank and still. Dargharvis looking at her, something dark in his face- "it has to be done, Ruth-"

"The cult," she muttered. "The ones who-"

"Who welcomed it!" His voice was jovial. "Who worshipped it, sheltered it. Yes."

"We killed them," she said, leaden. She should be moving. Looking for Lanara. Trying to salvage something, anything she could.  Should be. Wasn't. "We killed them all, I saw them-"

"And yet, here they are! And they've been waiting."

 

At last, something like sense hit Ruth. She lunged backwards. The wall behind her, already weakened by the flames, came apart as she went through it. Had to go. Now.

Except when she came up, sprinting down the corridor, Johen was there.

HArd turn, shouldering through flames (ignore the pain, keep going, it's nothing) Johen was there.

Left. Johen was there.

Right. Johen was there.

 

 

Teleporting. Had to be. She lashed out with a fireball. He leaned back and let it glide over him.

"As for me," he said, continuing as if they'd come in from the rain, "I was lucky enough to commune with the creature directly. The sacrament of the holy passenger, they call it. It's in my head now. All the time. And the power it's given me. Ruth. I dare say I'm even stronger than you."

She could see no way out, now, but through him. But he'd always been weak before- what had changed now?

"Prove it then," she growled, and lunged.

 

A woman left the ground.

A jaguar came down again, claws outstretched, descending on Johen like wrath on wings. But he wasn't there. The jaguar landed badly, skidded, rolled, came up on all four paws, head snapping around to look for him. He was at the far end of the corridor, now. His smile had a hint of disappointment to it.

"Now, Ruth, don't be silly," he started. That was as far as he got. Ruth had surged down the corridor again, shifting back to a woman, and struck with a snarled spell of fire and lightning. It scorched the air with it's fury. Johen was already gone.

"This is-" Shift. Falcon. Rip at his throat.

"Ruth-" Shift. Woman. A knife from the belt sent skimming through the air full of death songs and wonderful fury. Nothing underneath it.

On it went. She was not a person, any more, but a flickering will-o-the-wisp, death boiling out of her, every motion, every thought, another expression of death. But not once did she lay a finger on him.

She did, however, piss him off. He had stopped smiling, at last, or trying to talk. In the end (genasi fire in a burning building, missing him but taking out a wall) he appeared behind her and pinned her to the ground.

 

"I have spent a long time," he said, in his furious, guttural voice, "fighting for this conversation."

"Kill you," Ruth snarled over her shoulder, struggling.

"Shut up. I have had to convince people that you were special. Not like the rest. So I need you to _NOT BE LIKE THE REST,_ and hold still for a minute, or I will have to do something unpleasant. The initial pitch was to give you the sacrament, since that would bring you onside pretty fast, but the thing is, that also tends to-"

She'd worked an arm free. It was not the sloppiest punch she'd ever thrown, but it was close. Still, his head went back, his grip started to loosen, and she was free. She followed through on the punch- _let's see you get away now you little bastard_ \- locked her hands onto his shoulders, and pinned him to the floor.

"Die screaming, she growled-

-shifted-

-set panther teeth on his throat-

-felt them close on nothing.

 

A hand closed on the scruff of her neck. She felt herself fly through the air to smash back- breaking glass, must have been a window- into a tiny garden. Two stubby, trees were burning behind her. The grass was desperately crisping under the heat.

Johen stepped through the window. His face was a picture of barely restained fury.

"I should just kill you, I really should," he growled. "I wanted you to understand, but you won't listen. But the truth is, Sharla Ruth of the Pyrrhan Ashari, I still have use for you."

He reached out.

"Hold still," he said, and something grotesque squirmed behind his eyes. The smile was back. "Liana didn't scream, so try not to dissapoint-"

"Stop."

Johen growled in frustration and turned away.

 

Vivi's sword went through his fingers like breaking under sunlight. Johen let out a guttural shout of pain, and was gone. Ruth stared up at her rescuer. Behind Vivi stood Verist, fingers wrapped around knives.

"More coming," he muttered. Vivi nodded.

"I thought you might need help," she said, calmly. Ruth couldn't make herself speak.

"Vivi," said the detective again, voice taut with warning. The girl reached down and took Ruth into her arms.

"Let's go," was all she said.


	11. Verist

** CHAPTER ELEVEN **

** VERIST **

The Aasimar- Vivi- had gotten Ruth onto the cart without anything difficulty. She was far too strong for that skinny frame. Verist, too busy sending knives and crossbow bolts at shadowy cultists, hadn't stopped to question it. Some things would have to wait.

The cart had slipped out the gates under cover of the panicking crowd, rolling away from the flock of bucket chains and the symphony of voices raised in fear, anger, orders... a city with a fire racing though it. Verist hadn't stopped to think about it at the time. There'd been too many, too much strangeness to process yet. He'd been thinking mechanically. Calculating chances of pursuit, angles of attack. Below that, longer term, bolt holes they could use, cities and towns and villages where he had favours saved up.

Below that, nothing.

 

Verist had kept that purity of focus over the three days they'd been travelling. The long roads through empty fields and small, clannish villages had registered as avenues of attack, defensible positions, and nothing else. Three days. A long time. Longer, perhaps, than he'd expected.

From the fire and the ring of stones, he surveyed their surroundings. In the distance, back towards the son (now almost entirely set), he could just make out the vague smudges of the towns they'd been through. To the east was Westruun, a blur of torchlight and high walls. North, the proud mountains rose.

They weren't safe. But they were as close as they were likely to get. And Ruth was awake again, and talking, which was an unexpected benefit. She'd been uncomfortably silent the last few days. Vivi had... not fussed over her, exactly, but... hovered. Watched her.

But she seemed more present now. If Verist wanted answers, now was the time to get them.

  
He sat opposite her.

"Got a minute?"

She looked up at him, then glanced at the stew pot bubbling over the fire.

"I'm sure you can multitask," he responded, tone light. She shrugged. "What's going on?"

She stirred the pot. Didn't answer.

"Ruth."

Behind him, Vivi shifted. He hadn't even realised she was there. He could feel her now. Feel the controlled lethality, the amoral consideration. She could kill him before he'd even had a chance to move.

And if he let that stop him, then he'd never understand this.

"My office is still there," he said conversationally. "Well. I'd assume it's still there. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I can go. Now. But if you want me to stay-"

"It's not a question of want," said Ruth, voice like scrap iron in a junkyard. She coughed. Tried again. "This is Rose business."

"I gathered. But I also gathered that right now the Rose is you, Vivi, and whoever survived in the other campuses. Yes?"

Something flickered in Ruth's face. He took that as agreement.

"You don't think anyone survived at the other campuses."

"Stop now," said Vivi, voice conversational, "or I will kill you."

 

In an odd sort of way, that seemed to wake Ruth up more than anything he'd said. "Vivi. Leave him be."

"He's troubling you."

Ruth gave Verist a long, studying look. "I'm troubled already. A little more can't hurt. Leave him be."

There was a long stillness, and then Vivi was gone as quickly as she'd come, wandering off onto the plains. Verist let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding.

"So?"

Ruth stirred the pot again.

"No. I don't think anyone survived at the other campuses. We'd have heard by now if they had."

"So whatever happened at Kymal happened there, too. Happened at all of them at once."

"Most likely."

"Which begs the question, what happened?"

 

She sighed.

"I meant what I said about it being Rose business."

"Given the circumstances, you'll pardon me if I don't particularly care."

"That's not-"

"Look at what's happened, and tell me I don't need to know."

And now to watch it settle, as she struggled with the facts. He was right. She knew it. She hated it. She was stuck with it. At last, she made peace with it.

"How much do you know about the planes?"

He shrugged. "They exist. The gods live on them. Sometimes things come from there."

Ruth gave him a look, but carried on. "Most of the planes are structured to operate around each other, even with the god's gate in the way. They're a closed system, inner and outer alike. Everything interlocks. Even the really weird stuff like Limbo or Acheron is part of the multiverse- it ties into how reality is built."

"Acheron? Limbo?"

"The chaos aligned planes."

"...Alright."

"There were theories that other planes existed outside the closed system. The concept of multiple prime materials-"

"What?"

"...Never mind. It boils down to this: some of the theorists thought there might be a plane _outside_ the other planes. In fact, several. Structures of reality- multiverses like ours- that operate on completely different principles. Of course, the Explorators got very excited about the whole thing. A whole new plane? Somewhere no-one's ever been? That was crack to them."

"And they tried to go."

"Yes," said Ruth, grimly. "Big ritual. Took months to work out. Had to use Planar resonances on a huge scale. But it worked. Not perfectly, of course; first time with a new ritual? Never going to go off without a hitch. But we did manage well enough for them to astral project there."

 

She went quiet then, staring at him without seeing him.

"I'd just joined," she said abruptly. "New kid. Good magic, Ashari stock, and a druid- all they could want. Gave me a life. Gave me a chance to- to see."

"What happened to the Explorators, Ruth?" He asked, gently.

"...Johen, too," she said, voice suddenly very cold and harsh. "Same year. Him, me and Lanara."

"Ruth."

 

She sucked in a breath. "They brought something back."

"What kind of something?"

"We don't know. It's like a disease, but there's no physical symptoms. It... breeds, in your mind. Takes you over. What research we did indicates that it's trying to understand how we work, but it's... it's very different to us. And it doesn't seem to care much if we break. Mental contact lets it spread. To start with, we kept the... the patients contained."

 

Verist didn't say anything for a while. Let his mind work.

"...It got out, didn't it."

"Yes. And it did what every awful visitor to our plane does when it gets loose. It formed a cult. You have to understand, the Rose- they took responsibility. What had happened, happened because of their- OUR- experiments. We couldn't just let it claim people, but..."

She stopped. Tried again.

"There's no way to get it out of a mind once it's in," she said, helplessly. "And it spreads. And they were worshipping it; speeding up the rate of infection."

"What did they do?" Asked Verist, softly.

"...We had to-"

"They killed them, didn't they."

 

She didn't answer. The silence was enough.

"But you didn't get all of them, did you," he said, filling in the gaps himself. "Something got away. You mustn't have known about it, or you'd have finished the job. And now they're back, and taking revenge."

"...It was what had to be done."

"What will they do now?"

 

Ruth shook her head, avoiding his eyes.

"I don't know for certain."

"Guess, then."

"...The ritual. The one we used to get out to it in the first place. It wasn't finished. I think- I think they'll try to finish it. No need for astral projection. They'll make a gate."

"...And let the other things through."

 

And the night seemed darker, then, as the last licks of sunlight died on the night sky.


	12. Subtlety

** CHAPTER TWELVE **

** SUBTLETY **

 

The cell had a window. He hadn't expected that- every other time he'd woken up, he'd been in yet another anonymous set of stone walls and a single, locked door. He hadn't even been sure they were moving him. But here he was, looking at a window that he had not had yesterday. Proof of something, at least.

Subtlety pushed himself up off the cold stone floor, wincing as he went. His body was a litany of petty agonies; stiffness, cramps and the mewling pangs of hunger slashed at him. He ignored them. Helltown boys didn't pay attention to pain. It was too common a thing to be bothered with. Instead he grappled at the window ledge until his scrabbling fingers found something resembling purchase and heaved himself up. The pain growled and grew until it set his shoulders screaming. He let a keening snarl past his lips and kept on until at last he could see out.

 

The window was barred. Given it was a prison, that was probably to be expected. Still, it was the first sight of the city he'd had in weeks. The sheer novelty was enough to make even Gresit beautiful. He held on as long as he could, staring out over the streets and shops and theatres and homes. The sun was setting, and it had painted the sky a deep and glorious pink. The light was running over the paving slabs and cobblestones. And in the distance, just visible if he squinted, even Helltown was gorgeous. All that squalor was gilded in the sunset.

Helltown.

Half his life spent running away from the place, and now he was going to die for it.

 

The screaming pain in his shoulders finally grew too much. He let go, fell, and landed on the balls of his feet. A few more painful twangs ran up his legs, but at least his shoulders had shut up. Subtlety let himself slump down.

Sunset. He'd only just woken up, too. His sleep cycle was fucked. That suggested-

The slot in the door opened. A tray slid in. The slot closed again.

-that he was right. They'd been drugging the food. Which would in turn explain the lack of magic. Easier than a wizard's prison cell, and cheaper besides.

So why were they moving him? He was dead anyway. Everyone with any sense knew that already. To even bother with a trial seemed hopelessly indulgent. But the Duke probably wanted to make a point. His daughter was dead. He had other children. They would need protecting from this in future. And besides, the city always enjoyed a good trial.

It made the execution more fun.

 

Subtlety took the tray from the floor and eyed it. Grey sludge. Well. Good to see things hadn't changed. He debated flinging it against the wall in a grand statement of defiance. His stomach, shrunken mess that it was, made clear what it thought of that. He sighed, and dug his fingers into the tepid pile of maybe-potatoes-maybe-not-best-not-think-about-it.

Later, he'd try not to remember the eating. It had been bad enough in the moment, with the heavy, cloying weight of the stuff on his tongue, poisoning his tastebuds. He still devoured all of it. Only dignity kept him from licking the plate, and even then only just.

 

It was a day like every other since he had woken up in these cells, bar the window.

Then the door opened, and things deviated sharply from the routine. Subtlety dropped the plate the instant he heard the bolt moving, and stood back against the wall. The jailors were armed with short clubs- he wanted as little as possible to do with those as he could physically manage. They eyed him dourly.

"Turn," grunted one.

He turned.

"Hands behind your back."

He put them back. Something cold and metallic locked around his wrists. They took him by the elbows and shoulders, roughly, and pulled him out of the cell.

"Where am I going?" he asked, with little hope of an answer. The blow to the back of his head was not unexpected.

"Shut up," came the growled reply. Such sparkling conversation was wasted down here, truly it was. He kept his head down and mouth shut, and waited.

 

They brought him to a small room with a wooden table and two chairs. No windows here, and only a single door. They dropped him on one of the chairs and shackled him again, around his wrists and ankles. Even the chance of movement was gone. He sighed with nigh-theatrical irritation. The jailor cuffed him again.

When the ringing in his ears stopped, he opened his eyes again. A man had sat opposite him, dressed in copper badge leathers. From the epaulets, he'd say captain. Maybe higher. Balding. A broad jaw and face that vaguely brought to mind some kind of ape. The flat, broad nose and thick sideburns didn't help the look.

"Subtlety Emberdark?"

He had a strange kind of voice, absent any tone or accent or really any distinguishing features at all. A grey sort of voice, and dull and boring besides. Subtlety let a smile creep across his face.

"Good afternoon, Captain."

"I'm captain Sokolier of the Duke's Guard."

"Charmed to make your acquaintance."

"Do you know why you're here?"

 

Subtlety gave as close as he could manage to a shrug.

"I'll take that as a no. You are currently awaiting trial for twenty counts of assault on a member of the Duke's Guard, several counts of petty theft from various members of the nobility, four counts of petty murder of a lowborn civilian- Ranyel of Dulgur Street and associates, one count of high murder of a member of the Duke's household- her ladyship Olga Nolyevka, the Gods rest her soul, one count of high treason- assault on the Duke's household, and associated charges to all of the previous, namely attempted evasion of the Duke's justice. Do you have anything to say?"

"How did you do that with your voice?"

 

For the first time, Sokolier looked at Subtlety- really looked at him, not just glanced. He seemed thrown.

"Do what?"

"That... thing. When you were talking about Ranyel."

"...four counts of murder-Ranyel of Dulgur-"

"Yes! That! I can hear the dash!"

"Do you think this is a joke?" Sokolier growled. Subtlety laughed, and didn't answer. The jailor's blow barely even registered. After a moment, Sokolier continued.

"...Is there anything else you'd like to mention?"

"I didn't kill Olga Nolyevka," Subtlety muttered around a mouthful of blood. He spat it out, and saw a tooth bounce away across the floor.

"Why was her garter found in your possession?"

"I assume because we slept together."

"Assume?"

"I'd had too much to drink. I don't remember the evening."

A long pause. Sokolier leaned over the table.

 

"You're known to pollute a lot of girls, Mr Emberdark."

Mister. That was kind of cute.

"Pollute. Interesting turn of phrase."

"A tiefling who sleeps with humans, sounds like pollution to me."

"Whatever gets you off, Captain."

Sokolier didn't acknowledge that one.

"The counts of petty theft all come from those you've sullied."

"I'll take your word for that."

"I notice you didn't deny it."

Subtlety gave him the driest look he could muster under the circumstances.

"I felt the murder of the Duke's daughter might take priority."

 

Sokolier didn't look away.

"The crimes laid against you- the provable ones- all indicate that you are a Devil of low character, like all of your race. You took advantage of vulnerable women of good standing and enacted perversions on them, then stole from them and left them to pay for your depravity. Why, precisely, should the murder of one of those women be considered beyond you?"

For a long moment, Subtlety said nothing. Then, at last, "is there any point answering that?"

"It may harm your defence if you do not-"

"What defence? Captain. Let's be honest. This conversation is irrelevant. I could deny everything. I could confess to all of it. I could start spouting Vasselheim scripture in the original Celestial. It wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. I am going to hang, innocent or not."

 

Another expression flashed across the blank wastes of Sokolier's face.

"You will hang because it is just-"

"I will hang because I'm a horn who slept with noble girls-"

"THE DUKE'S COURT WILL NOT BE SLANDERED!" howled the captain. He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over, and leaned to bellow into Subtlety's face. "THE DUKE'S COURT IS AN HONOURABLE INSTITUTION! THE DUKE'S COURT IS A NOBLE INSTITUTION! IT'S CHARACTER IS NOT IN QUESTION, LEAST OF ALL BY SOME BASTARD HELLSPAWNED LITTLE WHORE!" And as he finished, he fell back, panting. In the following moment of silence, he collected himself, pulled the chair back up and sat down again. "You will hang because it is just," he said in the end. "Because your attitude to life has brought you low, and in that lowness led you to evil actions."

 

"If that's the case," Subtlety answered, "then why are we bothering with this conversation?"

"Because the court must interview you before you are tried," came the automatic reply. And then, slower, grudgingly, "and because your plea must be heard, guilty or innocent."

"I did not kill Olga Nolyevka."

"And the rest?"

"Innocent as well."

 

Sokolier retreated back to blankness again, visibly washing his face of anything resembling emotion.

"Recorded, then. Take him back to his cell."

The jailors started on Subtlety's shackles as the Captain left. But he stopped at the door and turned back.

"It is your own character that is to blame, Mr Emberdark," he said abruptly. "Nothing else."

And then he was gone, and the door closed after him.


	13. Lapis

** CHAPTER THIRTEEN **

** LAPIS **

"So explain this to me again," asked Trigrim, scratching at the underside of his jaw. Lapis sighed. Running a mercenary company was supposed to be fun, gods damnit, not take up her entire life with micromanaging the armed sociopath's she now apparently owed money to.

"You took the Daelhand job," she said patiently.

"Did," replied Trigrim, stolidly.

"...Fine. You did the Daelhand job."

"Killed every gobbo in sight."

"Yes. But what you didn't do was take any actual _proof_ that you'd done that-"

"-killed gobbos-"

"-to the client."

 

The minotaur glowered at her.

"Killed them."

"Yes. I know. But anyone can _say_ they killed a goblin clan. The client wanted proof."

"Never told me that."

"No, I did," said Lapis, heart sinking quickly in her chest. "It was in the contract."

"Didn't read the contract," said Trigrim, grumpy and shading towards belligerent. "Can't read."

"I know, I read it for you."

"Didn't read me anything about proof."

"I said you had to cut off their ears or other appropriate bodypart, Tri..."

"Didn't say I had to give it to the client."

"Tri, I did. I said it several times."

"You calling me a liar?"

 

Lapis gritted her teeth together, let out a long, slow breath, and stood up. If they could just have skipped the argument and gotten straight to this, everything would have gone a lot faster.

"Yes," she said, calmly. Then she punched him. Trigrim's head went back in a sharp, abrupt arch, but he didn't fall. She had seconds at best before he responded. Lapis put her foot on the table and pushed off. Her hands tangled in Trigrim's thick, wiry pelt. Tolerable hand holds. She kicked down, setting her feet onto his chest, and pulled.

At last, the bastard minotaur started to fall, the momentum sending him backwards. As soon as his back hit the floor with an abrupt thud, she dropped to her knees and started knocking his teeth out of his head with big, showy haymakers. Half of this beating had to be to remind everyone else in the company hall who was boss. His teeth skittered across the floorboards, happily trailing little arcs of blood.

"You," she said. Punch. "Are a liar." Punch. "Or an idiot." Punch. "Who forgot." Punch. "To take proof of kill." Punch. "To the client." Punch. "And now." Punch. "The company. " Punch. "Is out of pocket." Punch. "For your travel costs." Punch. "And the tab." Punch. "And damages." Punch. "You ran up." Punch. "At the inn." Punch punch backhand to get the last molar out. Nice thing about minotaurs, the teeth grew back fast enough.

"Idiots get to keep their jobs. They lose their cut on their next three jobs to make up the debt they owe the company, but they are still employed. Do you understand that word, Tri? Employed?"

The minotaur gave a whingeing moan, and didn't answer. Lapis sighed theatrically and hit him again.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, you dumb fuck. Do you understand what employed means?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Okay. That's what happens to idiots. What happens to liars is much, MUCH less pleasant. They aren't employed. They also don't get to keep their lodgings in the company hall, or the nice fancy great-axe the company bought them for the Grumenholdt gig. They go out into the fucking street, right now. And then I shit on their chests, because dominance. So. With that in mind, are an idiot or a liar?"

 

There was a brief moment as something like defiance flickered in Trigrim's eyes. Then said eyes fixed on the large, broad-bladed sword at her belt, and the defiance died a very sad little death.

"'M an idiot," he mumbled through a toothless mouth.

"What's that?"

"'M an idiot!"

"Good to know." Lapis pulled herself back to her feet, grabbed Trigrim by a horn and pulled him upright. "Now go find the priest and get your face looked at. I don't think I fucked your eye, but you'll need both."

"Yes boss," the minotaur said, before staggering back outside. Lapis glanced down at the impressionist painting of blood, minotaur fur and teeth that now decorated the floor of the front hall. Gods. The cleaning staff would whine like stuck pigs. She sighed, then glanced back at the desk. Rhully stared back at her, as unimpressed as a Kenku could manage around a beak.

"Don't start," said Lapis, sourly, as she sat back down. "He'd have started the fight himself if I didn't."

"If I didn't," he parroted back.

"It's a _mercenary company,_ Rhull, I was just-"

"We'll start a good one, you and me, run it proper, make sure we keep discipline. Like the army. That's how we'll do it."

He'd spoken in her voice. Lapis winced.

"I did say that, yes, but-"

"Like the army."

"Okay, okay, yes. I will admit. If Captain Walgahrd had tried that, he'd have been stripped of his commission. But...I mean... Trigrim. That's my counter argument."

Rhully stilled looked unimpressed. But his feathers had startled to settle a little, so he clearly wasn't furious any more. After a moment, he gave a curt nod.

 

"Thank you. I will try and be more dignified in my beating next time."

The resultant harsh caw of laughter was all she got in response to that. He handed her the appointments ledger.

"I suppose we're working through lunch, then."

Another curt nod. She sighed.

"Fine. Who and where?"

Rhully stabbed a feathered finger down at the book again. She squinted.

 

"...Anveshak Verist. Don't know him."

"One of mine," said Rhully, in a voice she vaguely recognised as the drunk who lodged next door.

"Oh. Right. A friend?"

She watched the ravenman consider that, tilting his head as he did. After a moment, he brought up one hand and waggled it in a so-so gesture.

"Acquaintance."

Thumbs up.

"...Alright. Did he say what about?"

Rhully shook his head.

"Can he pay?"

Rhully shrugged.

"...So we're going to meet someone you just happened to know, for a job we don't have any details on, and with uncertain pay at the end of it. Yes?"

Nod.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?"

 

Rhully's beak split into what was, for him, a wide grin. He poked at the book again, under notes. Lapis leaned in to read again.

_The client has agreed to discuss their business over lunch at-_

And suddenly Lapis was smirking too.

_-Regent's Dining Rooms._

And under that,

_The client has agreed to pay._

 

Lapis stretched out an arm and wrapped around Rhully's shoulders.

"Regent's. Regent's where they do the salt beef, the cheese, the roast peppers and the gravy. That Regent's. Oh, my dear Rhully. Have I mentioned you're my favourite?" she asked him, with far more honesty than she'd ever admit. Rhully ducked out from under her arm and made towards the door, still grinning. "No, seriously! Have I? Because you are!"

She followed after him, but paused at the door.

"Wait a minute. Dress code."

Rhully paused. He glanced down at himself- Tall for a kenku at six foot, skinny, his black feathers giving way here and there to a tracery of silver scars- and looked back at her. "Black tie," he said in the voice of some maitre D somewhere.

"Yeah. You are. I'm not. I'll meet you there in twenty minutes. Go on."

Rhully went.

 

Lapis went back through the front hall, then up the wide oak staircase towards her rooms. Most of the other officers lived off-site, but she'd always liked to be on top of what she'd built. It was a good kind of place. And if she was honest, it was hers in a way nothing else ever had been.

 

She shouldered through the oaken doors into her room, and went to the wardrobe. There was a mirror set into the inside of the door. She eyed it.

A stocky, grey-green skinned half orc stared back at her. Dark brown hair with a white streak running through it. Black eyes. A strong jaw, with tusks jutting up over her lower lips. Broad shoulders. A body corded with lean muscles and even more scars than Rhully.

A damn fine looking woman, if she did say so herself.

She thrust her hands into the wardrobe, and started looking for a dress. Lunch at Regent's meant she could get away with fancy, after all.


	14. Sharla Ruth

** CHAPTER FOURTEEN **

** SHARLA RUTH **

Ruth felt the tension, taut and hot, as it pulled at her shoulderblades. She willed herself to relax. It was a restaurant in Westruun. If Johen and his cultists had gotten here already, then there was nothing she could do about it. Either they'd come at them or they wouldn't. And they hadn't shown any signs of subtlety yet.

 

Besides surviving undetected for over a decade, of course.

 

She gritted her teeth and slouched a little lower at the table, eying the other patrons. There was a lot of silk on show, and velvet. Wrists and fingers dripped gold, silver and gemstones. Hair was carefully sculpted into elegant peaks and waves. The room, too, was an exercise in elegance, all pale wood and cream coloured carpets, lit by a dozen wide, clear windows overlooking the city. It was beautiful. It was classy.

Ruth hadn't felt this out of place in years.

 

Vivi, however, didn't seem to be having any problem. She was carefully nibbling at a bread roll, still warm from the oven. Somehow, she was making travel-stained leathers and a haircut that could at best be called windswept look like high fashion. It just wasn't fair. Verist was just as bad. She knew for a fact he'd not managed to retrieve anything when they'd fled Kymal, and the bastard couldn't have had more than fifteen gold in his pockets, absolute tops. And Verist was a skinny man, half elven with one ear missing its point from a bad dodge some years back. He looked like he hadn't eaten for months, at best. At worst, he looked like a famine victim.

So how in any hell at all had he managed to look like _this_?

The skinny bastard was resplendent in a cadet-grey morning suit, with a white cravat and just a hint of white lace at the cuffs. His calf-skin boots  (calf-skin! Actual fucking calf-skin!) where spotless. Even his hair (normally combed back to cover the beginnings of a bald spot) was freshly washed and immaculately styled.

It made no gods damned _sense._ How had he...

 

No. Focus. This was business- necessary business. She made herself take a breadroll and nibble at it. They'd need support for what was to come.

"You're sure they'll join us?" She asked Verist, carefully. He nodded.

"Rhully's smart, and for all that he's unpleasant occasionally, he's not actually evil. You're sure we can foot the bill?"

"The Rose paid well, and they left me salvage rights on anything I found that they didn't want. Parts of the elemental plane of earth have gemstones as big as your head growing on trees. And that's before you get to what you can turn up in Sigil. Money's not a problem. I don't know why you couldn't just tell them that-"

"Because you haven't shown me cash," he responded simply. Ruth growled and looked away. "After we make our agreement, after you pay them, then I will admit I was wrong."

"You lived in Kymal too long."

"Possibly. There they are."

 

He gestured. Coming through the door was...

Well. At least Ruth didn't feel like the only one who was out of place.

The Kenku- another tall, skinny creature, good gods, did the adventuring life just attract the stick thin and gangly?- was clad in light leathers over a shabby suit, sans tie. Nothing too noticeable, had it not been a giant bird-person wearing them. But the half-orc woman?

Most half-orcs Ruth had met in her life tended to try and avoid notice. At best, they stopped caring. She'd never met one who went out of her way to attract it before.

The dress was fine pale linen, with a cinched waist. Loose and flowing, cut high to just below the hip. The sleeves were long and loose, with slits running up them to the shoulder so they didn't cover her (muscled, scarred) arms. The neckline didn't plunge, admittedly, but buttons ran down from her neck down to her waist, and were so loose that little windows of flesh kept opening and shutting as she walked. She was absolutely _gorgeous._

...And worse, she'd caught Ruth staring. The half-orc gave her a wink over a slight-but-nevertheless roguish smile. Ruth looked away abruptly, and hoped she wasn't blushing.

 

The pair sat opposite them. Verist and the Kenku (Rhully, she assumed) shared a very professional handshake. The half-orc raised a hand and clicked. A waiter scurried over.

"The roast beef," she said, in a voice like gravel over silk. "The cheese. The cold roast peppers. Gravy. Two of the baguettes. And red wine. Rhully will have the same."

The Kenku gave her a surprisingly expressive glare. She smirked at him. The waiter seemed oddly unsurprised.

"Of course, High Captain Lapis. The roast beef, cheese, cold roast peppers, gravy and baguettes for you, and the fish and lemon sauce on asparagus for Sergeant Rhully. To drink, the red for you, and the white for the sergeant."

 

Lapis face went dark, but the waiter had already darted away. Rhully appeared to be smirking at her.

"You come here far too often for our budget," she grumbled. Then, at last, she turned to Verist. "You'd be Rhully's friend then."

"I like to imagine so," he said politely. She grunted.

"And these two?"

"Explorator Sharla Ruth of the Compass Rose," said Ruth, tersely. "This is Vivi."

"Hello," said Vivi, smiling without any meaning behind it. Lapis didn't flinch.

"Don't know the Compass Rose."

"A lot of people don't," said Ruth.

"And what can we do for you?"

 

Verist stepped in quickly. "Sadly, High Captain, I'm afraid we can't explain the precise nature of the employment until after you've agreed to assist us."

Lapis gave him an irritated glare. "We don't take blind work, Mr Verist."

"You will for what I can pay you," said Ruth. Lapis turned her glare on her.

"Oh yeah? And how much is-"

"Platinum," said Ruth abruptly. "Enough to keep you afloat for thirty years. Most of it in gem stones. If you go above ten million you'll have to take it in installments when I harvest it."

 

That did, in fact, shut Lapis up. Rhully leaned forward and stared at her. "Say that again," he said, voice disconcertingly low and leering, the voice of a thug. Ruth felt her teeth draw back in a controlled snarl.

"Don't." Verist put an arm in front of her. "That's just how Kenku talk. He had to copy it from someone else. Just- answer him.

Ruth breathed out slowly. "I can pay however much you want. If you go above ten million you'll have to take it in installments in gemstones."

 

Rhully kept staring. Then, abruptly, he nodded. Verist gave him a questioning glance. He nodded again.

"...You're not lying."

"No."

"-Alright, some facts, then. One- we don't kill children. Two- we don't start wars. Three- we don't do violence you can't justify-"

"Your moral scruples are welcome news, High Captain, but I promise you that is not the nature of the work we want to hire you for."

 

A glance between Rhully and Lapis. Then, at last, the half-ork nodded slowly.

"Alright. Alright, yes, we'll do it. Whatever it is. Now what is it?"

And as Ruth told them, she remembered how it had happened. The pain, the death, the stupidity of all of it. The numb, hopeless fear that had dogged her as they fled. And then, at last, the decision. Sitting around that campfire, on those empty plains. Verist asking, slowly, what they could do.

And Vivi, slowly drawing a blade and pointing at herself, then Ruth.

"Heaven, and fire," she'd said. "One of the compass points, and a representation of the prime material. Yes?"

And Ruth had nodded, slowly.

"So we need hell, order, and chaos. And to rewrite the ritual on a larger scale."

 

All that clogging, drowning fear. And then, at last, a little spark of hope.

"More than that," Verist had added. "We'll need to disrupt the other side. They'll be trying to enact the ritual again-"

"-only bigger," Ruth had said, quickly. "Much much bigger. We'll need an army."

And now, she looked across the table at Lapis and Rhully, and found herself wondering if they'd found it.

 

The two mercenaries sat in silence for a long moment. Then they turned to look at each other.

"Saving the world," said Lapis, slowly. The Kenku nodded.  Then, after another pause, "Well, it beats beating Trigrim senseless."

The waiter returned and laid out their dinner.

"The bill, please," said Verist.

"And two bottles of brandy to go," said the Kenku, in Lapis' voice. "Going to be a long day."


	15. Grimaldi

** CHAPTER FIFTEEN **

** GRIMALDI **

The rains had passed two days back. Now the sun hung over the town, hot and fierce, bleaching the streets and buildings of colour, searing the people.

They didn't notice. There was work to be done.

Today was the trial of the village elders. No-one was ever going to miss this.

 

They didn't have a courthouse, so the market had been repurposed; a dozen stalls had been dragged together and reinforced by stuffing chairs and broken furniture under them. The elders themselves were tied at the wrist and ankle with grey rope, and held on their knees by the threat of violence. Around them, the young had packed in, angry and jeering. The only one holding any dignity was the town judge.

A few days ago, his da had beaten him for forgetting the beets. Now, his da was at the back of that crowd, staring at his son with a mingling of pride and fear. Best the old man be reminded who his son was, now. Keep him from raising his hand in future. Behind him, Mrs Ruj was having an aggressive conversation with the executioner. The judge didn't know what it was about. Honestly, he didn't care- if it was relevant to the trial, she'd say it aloud. If it wasn't, she wouldn't. You could trust Mrs Ruj to be direct about this sort of thing, with no fear nor favour. He liked that about her.

 

Still. Not relevant now. The judge raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent.

"Brothers! Sisters!" He said, voice strong and sure. He was good at this public speaking business. "We all know why we're here today. This town is ours."

"Ours! Ours! Ours!" Hooted the crowd in rhythmic unison.

"Aye, ours! And it has been ours since we took it back! The Palac Lusterka lies, not thirty miles from here, in ruins! And who pulled it down?"

"We did!"

"Who threw down the tyrant Daturai?"

"We did!"

"Who took their freedom from those who kept it from them?"

"We did!"

"WE DID! And yet-" and the judge let his voice drop here, and something contemplative entered his tone, something considering and sad. "And yet. What did we take it for? This freedom, this great gift we fought for, killed for... what was the point? Did we do it to just... survive?"

 

The crowd went quiet, here, confused and muttering. He could lose them here. But he wouldn't. This was the final test of his new order of things, and he would not let it fail.

"To scrape along?" he asked. "To let tomorrow be the same as today? No change, no growth? Just this, forever and always? Well. Some of us did. Some of us chose that way. And there's no shame in that. The constant are to be praised."

A muffled half-cheer at that. He swept on.

"But what of those of us who didn't?" A dozen faces in the crowd lit up. He could see them catching on, now, and they whispered excitedly around them. Some little sparks moving through dry kindling. He exulted inside. It was going to work.

"What of those of us who wanted to try something new? To build new places, to reach out to the strange and different and learn from it? What of those who would open themselves to the winds of change and say 'this is my soul, sir, reach deep and test it. If I have virtues, let me prove them. If I have flaws, let me see them.' What of us? Have we had our freedom too, sirs?"

"NO!" Howled the young faces. "NO!" howled those around them. The fire had caught.

 

"No we have not! Who here remembers Mrs Ruj's plan for a school for the young ones?"

"I do! I do!" said the faces, and there were many now.

"And who remembers who stopped her?"

"I do! I do!"

"Who remember Dai Camlan, and how he wanted to go to Gresit?"

"I do! I do!"

And who remembers who stopped him?"

"I do! I do!"

"Who remembers who chased the actors out of town?"

"I do!"

"And the gnomish innovators? And the smith who worked in black powder?"

"I do!"

"SO DO I!"

 

They were howling, now, caught up in it, not so much a fire as a conflagration, an inferno of passion and hungers long denied. The judge pointed at the elders.

 

"You have ruled us now for ten years. Was that not long enough to make our lot better? To let us grow and be different?"

They did not answer. But, to be fair, a mouth sealed shut with tar was hard to speak through.

"And yet, look at us now. If the Palac Lusterka still stood, would we even know the difference?"

The bellowing crowd was behind him. He smiled grimly.

"I say, we would not. Elders, you stand accused. You have hindered progress. You have stopped us from growing. All so you can grow fat and powerful as spiders in webs. You are accused, and I find you..."

He took a moment to relish the building fury of the town.

"...guilty."

 

The roars were like thunder, they were so loud. The judge took hold of the first of the elders, and pulled him forward. The rope strained against the old bastards wrists and ankles, but he came far enough that the crowd were close enough to spit on him.

The headsman stepped forward. Mrs Rujj stared at them desperately.

"Don't do this," she said to him, quietly.

The judge sighed. "This is necessary," he said. "We can't build the new without the old."

"So exile them, through them out, don't-"

"No. If I do this, I will see it through."

He pushed her aside. The headsman looked at him for a long moment. Through the holes in the black burlap mask he wore, the judge could see eyes that were impossibly green.

 

"Shall I swing the blade, sir?" asked the headsman.

The judge almost said yes. In doing so, he did not know how close he came to his own death. But some part of him stopped. These people had to die. That was fact. He knew it, and so did every person here. The revolution had been hard and brutal, but it would all be for nothing if it wasn't seen through.

But to let it be done by another's hand... to let some stranger, cloaked in anonymity, do it...

wasn't that a betrayal, in a way? Wasn't that abdicating responsibility? These lives had to end, but it was _him_ ending them. Even if the headsman did it, that would be true. So be honest about it.

"No," said the judge. "Give me the sword."

 

The headsman looked at him for a long moment, in front of the baying mob. The judge thought he saw something like approval in those green eyes. Then he handed him the sword, handle first, and stepped back.

He stood over the old man. "For the future of our town, I do this," said the judge.

And the sword came down.

***

 

An hour later, Grimaldi sat down in the inn with a mug of ale. The place was almost entirely empty- the owner had fled a day before, and the barmaid (who had taken over) was outside with the rest of the town, celebrating the revolution. They'd had to go behind the bar and help themself. Still. Small price to pay.

It had taken longer- in fact much longer- than expected, but the results were already spectacular. A public trial and execution normally took far more investment than this place did. And that speech. Well. The boy had a fine future ahead of him as the new ruler of this tiny place, he really did. Grimaldi raised their mug in a silent toast, and sipped at the ale.

 

Still. The fact remained. Their work was clearly done here. It'd be time to head on soon, and the merchants had fled the instant the rain passed over. No way around it; they'd be walking the rest of the way. And honestly, what even was the point? Gresit held no special meaning, really. It was just another place, a name on a map. They'd only chose it all those months ago because staying still too long drove them mad.

 

The front door opened, letting in the sounds of revelry outside, and a small fat dwarfish merchant, clad in travel stained leathers and a suprising amount of silk. Grimaldi raised an eyebrow. The dwarf hadn't seen them yet- today they were a skinny, sickly human boy, pale skin lined with wrinkles from sickness and a short, hard life of toil. It was tempting to be something more glamorous.

The dwarf scanned the room and saw them at last. Grimaldi sighed inwardly. Human invalid it was then. They raised their mug in welcome. The merchant pasted a friendly (and probably entirely insincere) smile onto their face.

"Your health, sir. Do you work here?"

"No, my lord," said Grimaldi. "I'm afraid the owner is out."

"That is a pity," said the merchant. "I was hoping for a cup of ale."

 

Grimaldi gave him a considering glance. "Well, my lord, I can only tell you that I too shared your predicament a few minutes ago. I was tired from the business of the day, and found myself with a powerful thirst, but no barmaid to help me quench it."

"And what conclusion did you come to, sir?"

"That perhaps a single cup of ale would not be missed."

"Clearly you are wise," said the merchant, grinning. He hopped the bar, took down a mug, and poured himself a drink from the taps. "Would you share your time with me? I find company helps make a drink refresh the weary."

"I too have found that. Please, sit."

 

The merchant came back across the bar and settled in opposite Grimaldi. "It seems I've picked a momentous day to wander through your fine town," he said idly.

"You saw the celebration, then."

"I did. I also saw the heads."

Grimaldi supped at their ale and said nothing, only raising an eyebrow. The merchant half-smiled and went on. "Old men and women, they were. Or had been, perhaps more accurately. They had been set on pikes outside the town, along the road. Traitors, perhaps?"

"Of a sort," said Grimaldi.

"And what sort would that be?"

"The sort that could not see which way the future lay. And thus the worse sort of all."

 

"Aaaaah," said the merchant, and sat back. "I understand now. A new circle of men and women rules here now, do they?"

"And have deposed their predecessors, my lord, yes. They promise us change, and excitement with it."

"How wise of them," said the merchant, tone inscrutable.

"Very," said Grimaldi, letting a hint of passion enter their tone. "We have not had change here for a long time, sir. It was well overdue."

The merchant nodded. "Well, I am glad to hear it has come at last, then."

 

"And I. Where do you come from yourself, my lord?"

"Gresit," said the merchant. "To be honest, I was due through here many days ago."

"The rains?"

"Good guess, but no, sir. It was something else that slowed me. The gates of Gresit, and its port, were shut."

Grimaldi's ears pricked up. "Shut?"

"Oh, yes. The Duke's own daughter, the Lady Olga Nolyevka, was murdered. All the city was closed until the Copper Badges found her."

"That is certainly news," said Grimaldi, in shocked tones. "We had not heard it here."

"I imagine, what with the lack of merchants heading in and out, that that is not so surprising," said the merchant, drily. "But take heart. The killer has been found. Even now, he awaits the Duke's justice."

"Aye?"

"A Tiefling Devil of Helltown. Worse, one well known for dallying with the daughters of Gresit's noble families."

 

Grimaldi felt something stir, deep inside.

"And what evidence was found, my lord?" they asked delicately. The merchant gave them a patronising look.

"They are a tiefling, sir. Surely you of all people understand that."

 

A tiefling. Held without evidence, except for their bloodline. In a city that clearly hated tieflings as a matter of course.

Oh, this would be _very entertaining._

Outwardly, Grimaldi nodded, and finished their ale.

"You are of course wise," they said. "Now, I must take my leave. I have a long journey ahead."

"Back to your farm?" asked the merchant.

 

Grimaldi grinned, full of a sudden, deep anticipation.

"To the harvest," they said, and walked out.


	16. Huygens

** CHAPTER SIXTEEN **

** HUYGENS **

 

The road between Stilben and Westruun is a hard one, often beset with bandits. If Huygens had a choice in the matter, he'd have waited for a merchant caravan and bought passage as a gunslinger. If he wore the Thunder Cannon and his revolvers a little more openly, he could have even got a wage out of it. He could work security if he had to, for all that it'd bring more attention than he'd like.

But he didn't have a choice. Not now. Westruun had gotten him caught. He had to assume that his pursuers would come looking for their fallen comrade, and then soon after him, too. A corpse like that would draw everyone's notice. They'd want revenge for that alone. Or perhaps they wouldn't; it was hard, sometimes, to understand how the Keepers of the Iron Orchard thought. Their minds could be alien even to him.

 

In any case, he had no choice. He didn't have the coin to buy passage to Issylra. The trip to Wildmount was cheaper, shorter, and could be got from Stilben easy enough. It'd be an unpleasant journey, and he'd have to go far into the Empire to be sure he was safe, but it was the best of a bad lot.

He dropped his head lower and pushed on. Westruun was a way behind him now, but he'd see it all the way to the Summit Peaks. The plains left every city naked under the sky, and the taint of their lanterns could follow you anywhere. He hated that, right now. He wanted mountains he could hide in, away from strangers and those he knew pursued him. Failing that, he wanted good docks in K'Tawl bay and a boat to take him away.

He had neither. And worse, it was getting dark. Too dark to keep going; a keeper could catch him dead in the dark and he'd never see them coming. At the edge of sight, he could just about make out the lights of an inn.

 

Risky. Inns meant people. People meant keepers- or at least the possibility of them.

But what alternative did he have? The Dividing Plains stretched far in every direction. He'd be lucky to find a bush to hide under, let alone a cave or forest. At least an inn had doors and windows he could lock and trap.

They also required coin, and he had precious little of that to spare.

But innkeepers could be flexible, given time and timing. He could be lucky. Worst came to worst, they might have a barn.

And in the end, there was nothing else He went to the inn, heart a growling mess as he went.

 

The place was what he'd come to expect from businesses on the plains. All rough, unvarnished wood, weathered grey by decades under a wild sky, with a thatched roof. Its windows were shuttered now, as the sun set. He slipped his left hand inside his coat and took hold of one of his revolvers, and opened the door with his right.

Inside was dark and smoky. The wall torches cast dull red light over the room, and the shadows flickered over the crude wooden tables and chairs. The bar was lodged in the back of the place like a bone in a throat. This was a bad place. In an odd sort of way, that set him at ease; at least the inn was honest. He moved slowly inside, keeping his peripherals as clear as he could manage, and not moving his hand away from his revolver.

 

The innkeep (he presumed- why else would she be standing behind the bar?) looked up at him and grunted.

"Room?"

"Yes," said Huygens. The directness was helpful.

"Private or dorm?"

"Private."

"Only got the one free. Four gold."

 

Huygens almost choked at the price. He wanted to stalk out. He wanted to point out, slowly and mechanically, every horrific flaw in this shithole of an inn. Wanted to. Didn't.

"Little steep."

"It's the price," she said, too disinterested to glare. "Dark night. Late. Won't find another inn nearby. It's me or the fields."

Huygens bit down a growl. "Fine." From his purse, he took out the gold, and pushed them across the bar. She snatched them up and bit them, one by one. Then, satisfied they were real, she started into the hall, beckoning him to follow.

"Will you be wanting food, sir?" She asked, suddenly hospitable. "Covered in the cost."

"Yes, then."

"Lamb? Bread? We have a little gravy."

"Yes."

"I'll bring it up. Your neighbour asked for some too. That'll help."

"Neighbour?" It would be nothing. Some merchant.

 

"A tall chap," said the innkeep, smiling back at him through greying, grimy teeth. "Dressed in black. Wore a top hat, if you please."

Huygens stopped. It was just a hat. He knew it was just a hat. A hat meant nothing. Except when it did.

"Skinny? Like me? Dressed in a heavy coat, would have kept his head down?"

The innkeep raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"There would have been a noise," Huygens snapped, ignoring her question. "When he walked past you, you would have heard a... a ticking noise, very quiet."

"...yes," she said, slowly, voice taking on the controlled tint of one who had been in the middle of someone else's battle before, and now found herself here again. "Yes, he did."

"And his voice. It would have been-"

"Nice. Beautiful, even."

"And wrong."

"...I'll have no fighting in my establishment-"

 

Huygens was already running. Of course. Of course they'd get here first. The innkeep was shouting after him, something about no refunds, but he didn't care. He just-

The hall was suddenly an explosion of splinters and screaming. Huygens dived, rolled, came up revolvers drawn. The innkeep was moaning not far from him, lying on the floor, scrabbling at her face. Great gouges of flesh had been ripped away by a single careless gesture.

The Keeper hadn't bothered with its coat as it came out of the room where it had waited for him. In this last moment, he supposed it wanted to show itself, truly. Resplendent and unashamed. Like him, its flesh was made of iron and brass. Unlike him, it had taken the time to chisel carvings all over its arms and torso. He could just make them out in the dull light:

Primus ministering to the chaotic.

Modrons in all their forms marching in perfect formation.

An Inevitable assembling its own head, gears visibly whirring.

On it went, and on and on, over every inch of flesh. A Keeper of the Iron Orchard, fully converted. The glass lenses of its eyes whirred as it smiled at him, baring sheet metal teeth.

  
"Apple," it said, in that awful, awful voice.

Huygens shot it. The bullet punched through its neck. It didn't seem upset- just reached up and pulled the bullet out.

"You make such beautiful things," said the Keeper. "Your guns. Your machines. Truly you are blessed."

"Fuck off," said Huygens, and shot it again.

 

The Keeper was moving already. This one was smart- far smarter than the last one he'd fought. It flung itself straight at him, giving him no time to move. And its hands closed on his revolvers, forced them up, putting itself out of his firing line. He couldn't fight this thing like this- it was stronger than him by far. He let go of the revolvers and flung himself aside, keeping it from pinning him.

Momentum carried the Keeper on for a few precious seconds. Huygens sent a hand into his coat and closed it on the stock of his thunder cannon as he pushed through the door. Too tight for a shot in here. Outside he'd have room to manoeuvre.

 

The Keeper had clearly come to the same conclusion. Its hand clamped on his collar and pulled. To even call it strong was stupid. This creature was as inexorable as gravity, and as impossible to deny. Huygens flew back into the smoky darkness of the inn, and crashed against the bar. The impact sent colours sparking behind his eyes and agony surging through his head.

The Keeper tutted. His revolvers were in its left hand, long fingers spidering over the drums. "Apple. Why do you fight?"

"Fuck you."

"Not an answer," it chided, in the voice of a disapproving school master. "You know the glory of our master."

"He's not listening."

"And yet you bore His holy attention in your very flesh. You. A natural born Mechanatrix. You must know this is His will?"

 

His hand closed on the thunder rifle again. He'd only have one chance at this. If he missed...

"Tieflings don't mean the hells are staring at you," he muttered, to distract it. "They just prove even devils like to get their dicks wet."

"You are not a Tiefling," said the Keeper. The innkeep made a gurgling, moaning noise. Somewhere inside that wet tumult, Huygens could just about make out a "please". The Keeper stopped and looked at her.

 

Then, with a contemptuous ease almost feline in its grace, it snatched a table and flung it across the room. There was a brief, blurred second as it collided with the innkeeper. There was a sound like wet paper tearing, and then nothing. Just silence, and the blood pooling underneath the paper.

Huygens knew some part of him should be shocked. Horrified, even. But all he saw was a chance. He had the thunder cannon up and firing in the gap where his disgust should have been. It took the Keeper in the hip (bad shot, fired one handed and awkwardly) and staggered it. He'd have seconds at best.

Huygens threw himself across the room and slammed into the creature's leg. The bullet had barely finished settling in its hip as he did, and it crumpled over him.

 

It was already reaching for him. He had no time-

Huygens lifted, hard, threw it back off himself, lunged for his guns-

Behind him a clattering shriek as the thing landed, rolled, rose-

Hands scrabbling for hardwood stocks-

The air ripping apart like dust and paper, the Keeper leaping for him-

 

And Huygens shot it again, over and over until the hammers of his revolvers knocked on empty chambers.

The Keeper was in pieces now, spread across the floor of the Inn. In the half light of the evening, Huygens could see only the glimmering of steel. He'd been right. A full conversion.

His lungs were heaving in his chest. He only noticed that now, after the fight. And there was the silvery pain of torn muscles and tomorrow's bruises running up his arms and chest. He wouldn't see them, of course. He was Mechanatrix, and iron doesn't bruise. But he'd feel it, and be slowed by it all the same. It would-

 

The Keeper moved. Huygens snapped a gun up, sent a hand ferreting through his pockets for spare bullets. In horror, he watched its long arms taking hold of fragments of itself. Then it rose, slowly, and pressed the piece back into its skull. The carvings glowed for a second. When the hand let go, the fragment was fused back in place, seamlessly.

The thing's eyes opened. It smiled at him.

"Order is good and just," it said. "In its service there are gifts and powers you cannot know."

 

Huygens went through his last pocket.

Nothing.

He was unarmed, and any second now that thing would be up again.

"It's time, Apple. It's just-"

 

He ran, then, out of the inn and back into the rain, and went unthinking back the way he had come. Inside, the Keeper kept smiling. It would stand soon enough. And the Apple would come back for the harvest.


	17. Johen

** CHAPTER SEVENTEEN **

** JOHEN **

Liana was making a noise, now; something halfway between laughter, tears, and hiccuping. Her face was as blank as it always was. Behind it, he wondered if he could see her Passenger. With his toys, he gave it free reign. Punishing them and entertaining it at once. He liked the elegance of that, and the efficiency. Johen reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Her eyes focused on him.

 

"Are you happy, Ms Warhurst?" he asked quietly.

"Happy. Happy. Happy. Sad. Angry. Happy happy happy happy do you want happy I am happy I am-" Her voice burbled on, meaningless almost-sentences pouring out. Her mind must be coming apart nicely, now; fragments of consciousness battered about by the Passenger inside.

"Good," said Johen, gently. "I'm glad. You should be. This is justice, after all."

"Justice justice justice just is just. Is. Just. Is. It. Is. Just. It. Is. It. Is. Just-" and then the laughing sobbing hiccup. Her eyes started to drift again. From those smooth lips hung a single long thread of spittle. Johen smiled mirthlessly, took hold of her dress, and rubbed it over her face.

"You could have avoided this, Liana," he said, still quiet but a long way from gentle. "All of it."

 

A knock came at the door. He sighed and straightened. "Enter."

The woman came in. There were still burn marks on her jaw from the fire. Outside in the corridor, he could hear the shifting clanks of the knight's armour. Both of them at once. This would be interesting.

"Lord Director," she said. "We have more news." She wasn't looking at Liana, but he knew she didn't approve.

 

The Passenger wriggled crossly. He soothed it. The woman could think what she wanted. It's what she did that mattered.

"In which direction?" he asked, moving to sit at his desk. The room was small and cramped, but it would do in the short term. Things were proceeding apace.

"We have made inroads with the infernal cults. Quite a few. And I have brought a guest from Stillben."

Johen raised an eyebrow. "A guest? I thought you were handling it yourself."

"I was, Lord, but this element requires direct intervention." And now she glanced at Liana.

 

Johen smiled again. So it was like that, was it? Well. He could handle that.

"Very well. The cults first."

"A few of the Asmodeans have indicated they are interested in our offer," she said promptly. "They have a long-standing rivalry with the Ruiner. A chance to strike at his heartland seems tempting to them."

"They're not exactly known for their restraint," said Johen, dryly.

"No, Lord Director. They are having difficulty, however, with membership."

"No Goblinoids."

"No."

"Well, we'll see what we can do about that," said Johen, leaning back. "Some of the smaller clans might be appropriately... convinced, given the right leverage."

"From Vesper?" she asked.

"Exactly. Give one or two the sacrament, then impress what's needed on them. Should do for a starter pack. Have our Envoys express a desire to speak to those... further up the chain. Got to be at least one devil in the Hells that'll speak to us."

"Sir."

 

"And the other matter?"

She smiled, then. On anyone else, he'd have called it lascivious, but from her it was just... hungry. Like a starveling dog setting on a corpse.

"Of course, Lord Director. Bring him in," she said, raising her voice.

The door swung open, and the knight stepped in. Today, the runes scrawled across its armour glowed a dull orange-red. Boredom, he assumed. Or maybe anger. It hadn't had a kill in a while. The low ceiling forced it to stoop, which couldn't have helped.

One giant, mailed hand was clasped around a man's neck- not quite choking him, but far from comfortable.

"May I present, Sir Ivan Wuldermung of Stillben," said the woman. "An important figure in the city council."

"A pleasure to make your aquaintance, Sir Ivan."

 

The man whimpered. It was a dark room, and the windows were almost entirely shuttered. Liana wasn't speaking any more, but she was moving a little. Rocking back and forth. He'd be seeing glimpses of her in this dark place.

"Interestingly enough, Sir Ivan has been assisting us in various matters," said the woman.

"How helpful of him."

"Yes. But lately, it seems he's had a... change of heart."

"He stole from us," said the knight. Johen fought down a shiver of revulsion. He hated when it spoke; its voice was an awful thing. If rotting meat left to spoil in a desert sun could speak, that was how it would sound. "Asked for gold to bribe the other councillors. A lot of gold."

"And then," the woman continued, still smiling at Sir Ivan, "he ran. Took the gold, loaded it onto a wagon, and fled in the middle of the night."

"I caught him," said the knight.

 

Johen sighed. "Oh, Sir Ivan, that is disappointing to hear. Did you get our gold back?"

"Yes," said the knight.

"And indicate our displeasure?"

The knight pulled a bag from its belt, and opened it. Inside were dozens of gory trophies; eyes, teeth, tongues, ears and lips. "Not enough left to take," said the knight. There was satisfaction in that awful voice. Johen nodded.

"With one exception," said the woman. "You see, Sir Ivan brought several other assistants to us. We need to show them why one does not impede holy work."

 

"Well. That can be arranged of course. Let him go."

The knight flicked its wrist. Sir Ivan fell heavily to the flagstones. In seconds, he was on his knees, fastening his hands on Johen's belt.

"I beg you sir," he gibbered, "please, forgive my weakness. I am sorry for my... my foolishness."

"I know," said Johen, gently.

"I was... tempted, sorely tempted. I failed. I can only apologise. Please. Let me go back to Stillben. Let me help your worthy endeavour. I am sure I can-"

 

Johen put his hand on Sir Ivan's cheek. The man stopped talking.

"Sir Ivan," said Johen. "You are labouring under a misapprehension. "

"...I... I am?"

"Yes. You seem to think that we want to hurt you. We don't."

The man didn't believe him. Johen gave a patronising smile. "You see, you're actually very lucky. In doing what you did, you've put yourself in a position to help us."

"I will sir," said the noble. "I will, anything, just-"

"Good!" Said Johen, smiling. "Very good. What we need from you, sir, is your faith. We are, at our core, a religious organisation."

 

"All well and good," said sir Ivan. "I am a Godly man."

"Excellent," said Johen. "You're perfect, then- in all respects, you're exactly the sort of man we wish to initiate. An excellent prospect. Let me introduce you to another one of our members."

 

He reached out and brushed against Liana's mind. There was a crust of her being left inside. Beneath it, a Passenger lashed about, back and forth. It was tangled in her memories, now, defiling every part of them with its mad joy. He stroked it gently. It shivered.

The body of Liana Warhurst opened its eyes, and turned to stare at Sir Ivan.

"Play nice," said Johen. Liana lunged.

 

It was sad, really, he thought, as he watched the two bodies thrash and tear at one another. Sir Ivan was barely even screaming. His own Passenger twisted about and made a suggestion.

That was a good idea.

He took hold of the noble's mind, and pressed gently at its defences until they parted like wet paper. The man started to scream again, louder and more desperately. Johen smiled. His Passenger was starting to squirm and shiver in his head. After a moment of intense, almost ecstatic sensation, he felt it split apart. The new Passenger swam deep into Sir Ivan's mind.

Yes. That was much better.

 

"Outside," he said. The Woman and the Knight went out. He followed them and closed the door. Best let them get acquainted. "To Stillben, then. We'll handle it directly. The Buried One has waited long enough."


	18. Sharla Ruth

** CHAPTER EIGHTEEN **

** SHARLA RUTH **

They had finished in the restaurant and moved back to the company hall. It was a surprisingly nice building, Ruth had to admit- high roofs, big windows, nice stonework in the walls and well-sprung wooden floors. She'd had visions of blood stained carpets and grooves worn into the floor by dragged corpses. Then again, Lapis didn't seem the type to stand for that sort of thing. More importantly than all of that, though, was the sigils carved into the walls. They'd dropped a lot of cash to make sure the place couldn't be scried, apparently. Wise investment.

 

Lapis had herded them into the office as soon as they'd arrived. That too had been a surprise. She hadn't really expected a mercenary company to have an office, even if she had to admit it made sense. The desk was piled high with paper work, and dozens of cabinets on the walls leaked even more onto the floor. She could see receipts, contracts, and what looked like reports. It was professional. That shouldn't surprise her, honestly.

 

"So. First things first. Victory conditions," said Verist.

Ruth blinked. Lapis was sprawled across a chair behind the desk. Rhully leaned against a wall behind her, examining them all. Vivi had taken up what would obviously turn out to be a very sound defensive position by the door.  Verist himself was comfortably ensconced on the remaining chair, legs crossed.

"Victory conditions?"

"We cannot plan this without knowing the precise result we're trying to bring about," the detective said, voice taking on a lecturing tone. "Certain parts are obvious. Stop the opposition from bringing their... entity-"

"The passenger," muttered Ruth.

"-Passenger, thank you, through from the Far Realm. That obviously means stopping them from spreading it any further. Is there a cure?"

"No."

"So we have to kill all those who currently have it," said Verist. He could have been talking about the weather. Ruth winced, but didn't argue.

"How does it spread?"

"Telepathic contact," said Ruth. "It has to be straight mind to mind. It's how we managed to keep it contained last time." _Except we didn't. And now we're here._

"And it's currently being spread by Johen."

"I... have to assume so. I didn't know he was a telepath, but-"

 

"Not a telepath," said Vivi, still eying the door. Ruth looked at her.

"What?"

"Johen isn't a telepath," said Vivi. "The tactics he was using in the Kymal campus suggest he's a warlock."

Ruth shook her head. "He'd have to contract with something. The passenger-"

"Is an outsider," said Lapis, giving Vivi a considering look. "What tactics?"

"Hit and run. Jumped around a lot. Kept us at a range, tried to talk to Ruth- no evidence of magic, but psychological warfare is a traditional warlock tactic."

Ruth found herself staring. "How the hell do you know that?"

Vivi shrugged. "The other gangs had warlocks sometimes. I was good for that."

 

A dozen questions rose up. Ruth crushed them. This wasn't the time. She turned her mind back to the matter at hand. "That doesn't explain _how_ though. Last time, the cult didn't... we were harrying them the entire time, if it _could_ make warlocks, why didn't it do it last time?"

"Investment." The voice was dry and humourless. A Lawyer's voice. They turned to look at Rhully. The Kenku shrugged. Lapis' brow furrowed. A second later, Ruth could almost see something click in her head.

"Like the Yuggurim thing," she said. Rhully nodded. Lapis turned back to the rest of them. "A Warlock isn't just a contract, it's a relationship. The patron has to invest time and effort. Last time, you were hunting them down root and branch pretty much straight away, yeah?"

Ruth nodded.

"And the infected people, you said they get fucked up?"

 

"Not in front of Vivi-" said Ruth, then caught herself and winced in embarrassment. For her part, the Aasimar had shot her an unamused glance. "They... go mad. The entity intensifies their emotional reactions to start with. Then it starts- rooting around."

"So there isn't really a person left to make a deal with, yeah?"

"...I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

"So this thing, it had to wait for you to stop looking for it," said Lapis, considering. "Then it had to wait for the right person to come along for it to contract."

 

"While fascinating, this isn't relevant," said Verist. "As far as we know, the entity hasn't contracted with anyone else?"

"I don't know what happened at the other campuses," said Ruth. "But I only saw Johen do anything like that at Kymal."

"Best to assume multiple Warlocks," said Lapis. "We might be lucky and be wrong, but let's prep and not need it. Better than the alternatives."

Verist bowed his head in acknowledgement, then carried on. "So we have to kill Johen, ascertain if there are more warlocks or telepaths, then kill them as well. Yes?"

 

He was cold, the way he said it. Calculating. She'd always knew Verist could be ruthless, but this...

"Yes," said Ruth. The discomfort flared in her chest. But this had to be done. She could carry the guilt when the problem had been-

Handled.

"Besides that, there's the ritual," she said, pushing on from that thought. "Which is probably the most important part. They're using it to let the thing in from the far realm. We're inverting it, to try and push it back out."

"Which would kill the infected."

"Yes," she said, gritting her teeth. "Or at least hurt them real bad. Look, it doesn't- anyway. We're doing it with Planetouched."

"Why?" Rhully again. She couldn't place the voice this time; young and sweet.

"You have to invoke the four principles of the planes. Alignments, some people call them. Good and evil, order and chaos. Then you need to set it into the prime material, which is easiest to do through elements."

"So you," said Lapis, looking at her appraisingly. "Genasi."

"Basically. Plus, the way you're invoking the principles and the way you're setting them in the prime material has to match. Otherwise, no jump. I'm a person; human stock with a dose of the plane of fire. So all the other ones have to be the same."

 

"I am Aasimar," said Vivi. "Thus, good is also invoked."

Lapis turned to look at her for a moment, then back to Ruth. "So Chaos, Order and Evil."

"I believe the Tiefling, at least, should be easy," said Verist smoothly. "There are enough of them around."

Ruth shook her head. "We can't fuck around with this. Vivi's link to Good works, we know that- she gets the dreams from her guide. That's a pretty direct connection. Everyone else has to be as airtight. Not just any tiefling, the tiefling-est tiefling we can get."

"Another warlock," said Rhully. Whoever he had stolen those words from had spoken them in pure disgust. She wondered how much he agreed with the sentiment.

"Yeah. Which is... going to be problematic. Contracting with a demon-"

"There is an alternative," said Verist, quickly. She turned to look at him. "Do you know what a shadewitch is?"

 

Ruth considered. "Tiefling priest," she said eventually. "They do weddings and so on, protect the community from evil. Draw their magic from... darkness."

"Infernal darkness," said Verist. "Specifically the demonic taint that all Tieflings bear."

"Hell without demons. Evil without demons." Lapis had a grin on her face. "Useful."

Ruth stared at Verist. "I had to explain the planes to you a few days back. How do you know that?"

Verist shrugged. "I talk to people. Things stick in the mind. In any case, we have options as a result. Shadewitch powers originate from bloodlines. One such individual is currently standing trial in Gresit, on Issylra. If we can offer him an escape from his current situation, I imagine he'll readily assist us."

"What did he do?" asked Lapis.

"Murder," said Verist. "Although I'm given to understand he got caught up in politics."

"What kind of politics?"

"Does it matter? Given the stakes."

Lapis growled, but let it go.

 

"What about the other two?" Asked Vivi. Ruth gave her a surprised glance. The girl shrugged. "I'm curious."

"...Chaos and Order. Order is easier," said Ruth eventually. "A Mechanatrix. They start human. Then the link with the plane of order kicks in, and they start to change. You ever been to Whitestone?"

"Yes."

"Think like the clocktower they have there. Their body converts to it naturally. Hurts like hell, apparently."

"The link would be strong enough?"

"Oh yeah. We don't know why, but Mechanatrices have veeeery intense links to their plane. There was an experiment done by the Rose a few hundred years back. A mechanatrix who hadn't converted yet killed someone and got hung for it. They exhumed the body a year later; it was still converting."

"That sounds perfect," said Verist. "Where can we meet one?"

Ruth winced. "That's the problem. I don't know. There hasn't been a confirmed example in a long time. The inhabitants of Mechanus don't have sexual characteristics, so there's no interbreeding. You only get a Mechanatrix when there's magical backlash. A woman who's pregnant gets caught up in it, then nine months later, the kid is... well. You can see where I'm going. There's been rumours- a lot of them- about Mechanatrices up in the north the last few years, but no-one managed to confirm it. The research didn't attract enough funding."

 

Verist looked irritated. Rhully, however, had cocked his head in what for a Kenku was a considering expression. He took up a pen from the desk, scribbled something (his handwriting looked like a spider had drowned in ink and then spasmed its last on the page) and pushed it over to Lapis. She read it.

"Shit. Shit, yes. Ruth, you said they're made of metal. All metal?"

Ruth considered.

"Depending on where they are in the conversion, yes. Maybe glass, too. It varies."

Rhully gave a triumphant shriek at that.

"You're sure? Glass?"

"Yes. The eyes usually turn glass eventually. Sometimes the skull. Why?"

"Because about two days ago one of the smiths got an order from the Shields for breastplates, and when he didn't deliver on time started screeching about his apprentice being some sort of golem made of metal with glass eyes and a plate where his brain was," said Lapis. "There was a body found there too. An odd one. Cut up and shot to pieces."

 

Ruth sat back. "That... okay. That sounds like a mechanatrix. I'll go-"

"Don't," said Verist abruptly. "The last one. Chaos. Explain that. We'll head out afterwards."

Ruth sighed. "Both easier and harder. Chaos Planetouched are called Chaonds. Again, pretty strong connection with their plane, and no sexual reproduction. They tend to die young; the chaos taint dissolves them from the inside out. If they can survive long enough, they can form an identity which keeps them from... well, melting. They're always shapeshifters, and almost always chaos sorcerers."

"I can see the harder," said Lapis. "Where's the easier?"

"One of them is definitely alive and currently on this plane. About a year back, a Compass Rose scholar from the Vasselheim campus managed to get an interview with a Chaond called Grimdaldi. Charming, funny, big on pranking the hell out of the rich, powerful and unpleasant. They seemed pretty happy to talk about themselves, but the Scholar woke up on what was supposed to be day five of a ten day interview to find the room empty and a very large drinks tab run up on his name."

Verist growled. "That's not much to go on."

"You're a detective," said Ruth. "Detect."

 

"What now, then?" asked Vivi, before the argument could begin.

"Go speak to the smith," said Lapis. "And the gate guards. Find out what direction the apprentice went in, see what we can find. After that, we'll think long term."

They were out the door before she finished speaking.


	19. Subtlety

** CHAPTER NINETEEN **

** SUBTLETY **

Sokolier took his arm roughly and jolted him forward out of the cell.

"No trial suit?" asked Subtlety. "I'm to stand trial in this? I look like a fucking farmer, captain."

"Shut up," said the other man. He'd hit that dull, empty tone of voice again. Subtlety tried not to smirk. The captain had given him a target.

"No, come now, you must admit, it will not do for the Duke's Court to have to see me like this. Think of all those poor noble girls. The sheer sight of me might send them packing."

 

He hadn't been struck yet. Usually even mentioning human women was enough to set the captain off.  The trial must have woken up something in him; some residual speck of decency. Or maybe he just enjoyed the bureaucracy of it. Either way, Subtlety had a chance to run his mouth without the threat of imminent violence. That had to be something to treasure.

"Are we going direct? I ask only out of interest. I have a dinner arrangement with the jailor's daughter."

"I said shut up."

"Perfectly lovely girl. Has her father's overbite. There's something to be said for a woman who looks like her upper jaw is trying to escape."

 

Sokolier stopped responding. He'd probably started getting wise to Subtlety's tricks. Still. He was going to die by tomorrow at the latest. He might as well enjoy himself.

"I think that's the lovely thing about human women. They have so many delightful little quirks. Nobility especially. All that bloodline purity throws up the most fascinating nuances. An absence of chin for one."

Still nothing from Sokolier.

"Tiefling women, they're so... uniform. You know? No complicated jaws, an abundance of chins, eyes the right distance apart... I mean, you could call them classically beautiful, but I think we both know I mean boring. It's all that genetic diversity. Just absolutely ruins the look-"

 

The captain pushed Subtlety ahead of him with a rough shove. The tiefling smirked. Gods, it was easier when the bastard didn't fight back.

They had come to a large oak door. Behind it, Subtlety could hear people. The trial. His good humour started to evaporate. Sokolier glared at him with a kind of bleak satisfaction and started to unbolt the door.

"I'm implying human women fuck their cousins. Just so we can be clear."

"I'd save your wit for the trial, Devil," muttered Sokolier. He pulled the last bolt clear and the door swung open.

 

The court was the same cold grey stone as the rest of the prison, but allowances had been made for the good people of Gresit (or at least, the people well-to-do enough to be seen by the Duke), and the rows of benches on which they sat were wooden and cushioned in brown leather. There were so many of them, and all of them crammed full of gawking traders, store owners, bakers, butchers, chandlers, carpenters- all in their best clothes to see the filthy Devil take his sentence. And even further back behind them the great double doors were thrown open. He could see Copper Badges blocking the way to keep the riff raff out, but oh, the riff raff could see anyway, crowding together, climbing up on each other's shoulders, craning their necks to get a glimpse of him. He wondered if Shedim was in that crowd.

 

Would she be there to see him hang? Had she stayed in Helltown and nursed the hungry, miserable and lonely, not even thinking about her brother?

Would he be here if it was her standing in the dock?

Didn't matter now, he supposed. Either way, he'd never know.

 

The court itself was small, and raised so it could be seen easily by the crowd inside the court room. The stands for the Ducal Council were set along the back wall, in high, ornate thrones. In the farthest corner, the lord chronicler sat in front of an empty book, a quill in one hand. In the centre was the Duke himself. Eighty years old, bald as a newborn with a long grey beard carefully braided and styled. He looked like a soldier, come back from a war his home had forgotten. His eyes locked on Subtlety the moment he stepped out into the room. It wasn't quite hate that filled those eyes. Not even anger, exactly. More like a weary certainty; you have killed one of mine, so I shall kill you. This was not an act of revenge as much as it was a natural law playing itself out.

 

But Subtlety stopped caring when he saw the king's councillor of law take his place in the centre of the court. The breath caught on his teeth as the bastard's face turned towards him, calm and placid as a pond on a still winter morning.

Plessey fucking Covin. Esquire, if you please.

He wondered briefly if he'd gone mad. Perhaps that was all this was. Perhaps he was rocking back and forth on some street corner somewhere, babbling away. But no. That was the lawyer he'd clerked for, not so long ago. Same bleached, colourless skin. Same bald spot, clawing its way through rapidly thinning hair. Same fussy little glasses. The man who'd ruined his young life with a single honest conversation.

 

Subtlety wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh like a lunatic and fling himself across the court at the man. He wanted to thank him, hate him, scream, shout, strike his face, kiss his brow, tear out his throat, shake his hand.

_Thank you, sir. Thank you for showing me the world's shit. Thank you for reminding me that the horns on my head tell you everything you need to know. A Devil of Helltown, and a sinner born and bred. Let me kiss you. Let me kill you. Let me watch you die, and mourn the death of an honest man._

As if he had heard Subtlety's thoughts, Corvin turned his head and looked at him. That face didn't change an inch. The Tiefling wondered what would happen when the court started into session. Would he mention it? The years clerking? The quiet chat? Or would that damage his career? He'd climbed high, clearly; couldn't be good to be associated with the Devil that polluted and murdered the Lady Olga Nolyevka. No, he'd let it pass.

 

"Sit him down, Sokolier," murmured Corvin. The captain brought Subtlety to a low backed wooden chair, little more than a stool, and cuffed him again. The chains ran down to rings embedded in the stone, in a tight circle of runes. They flared to life with greasy fire as Subtlety sat. No magic to free him this time.  He had expected as much.

"Long way from your office, eh Corvin?" he growled. The lawyer turned back to look at him. He furrowed his brow for a minute, then turned away.

Something like ice settled into Subtlety's gut.

He didn't remember. All that work, all that time wasted, and bastard didn't even remember. This wasn't politics or lies- he knew lies, could smell them out a mile off. The lawyer had looked him in the face and seen...

Nothing. No one of importance. Another Devil to send to the gallows. His stomach roiled with sudden, poisonous hatred.

 

Corvin looked at the Duke. The old man nodded, and stood.

"Let the trial begin," he called. The room hushed.

 Corvin stood up again. "Your Grace, I bring before you the Tiefling Subtlety Emberdark."

"Is he a citizen of Gresit?"

"He is- a son of Helltown."

"Of what is he accused?"

"Twenty counts of assault on a member of the Duke's Guard, several counts of petty theft from various members of the nobility, four counts of petty murder of a lowborn civilian- Ranyel of Dulgur Street and associates, one count of high murder of a member of the Duke's household- her ladyship Olga Nolyevka, the Gods rest her soul, one count of high treason- assault on the Duke's household, and associated charges to all of the previous, namely attempted evasion of the Duke's justice."

"And how does he plead?"

"I turn to Captain Samming Sokolier of the Duke's Guard to recite the plea."

"So turn."

 

The old formulas and exchanges, marveled Subtlety. Like magic, they came back to him. Days, he'd spent, buried in books as old as he was- older, many of them- learning these words, and how they came to be. The ritual naming of the citizen, from the very beginning of legal precedent in Gresit. The question and assurance of citizenship. The listing of the charges. And the plea admission by the Duke's Guard- a recent addition, less than twenty years old, after a case where the accused had refused to plead.

Sokolier rose beside him.

"In interview, the citizen, one Subtlety Emberdark, formerly of Helltown, more recently of Tauren Street, has pleaded not guilty to all charges-"

"-but chooses to invoke the precedent of Richten versus Wheatley, and will change his pledge."

 

There was a rolling mutter of shock at that, crawling out of the mouths of the court and the onlookers. Sokolier's head snapped around to stare at him. The Duke had fixed his eyes on Subtlety's face (and there was anger, now, visible and cold). Only Plessey remained still.

"What?" growled the Duke.

"The citizen is choosing to change his plea before it is entered into record, Your Grace."

The old man's face twisted for a moment. One of his council leaned over and whispered in his ear. After a moment, he sat back.

"Let him do so, then."

"The court calls the citizen to stand and alter their plea," said Plessey.

 

Subtlety rose. The manacles were so tight he barely managed it, and they pulled at his arms. But this was the only chance he'd get to be heard, and he'd die screaming before he let the bastards away with this.

"To the counts of petty theft, I plead guilty. I took from those women. They never noticed it until I left, and they got their fun out of me, so I call that fair payment. But the law is the law. To the counts of petty murder of a lowborn civilian, I plead guilty. Ranyel and I had quarrelled. I killed his men when they tried to stop us, then Ranyel when I realised what I was accused of doing. I should have tried something else, perhaps. I didn't. The law is the law. The associated charges I will especially plead guilty to.

"You see, your grace, I am a Horn, a son of Helltown, and I know what justice I'll get in this court. Even if I'd been innocent as a newborn, you'd still hang me. Tieflings die every day, after all, and your Guard kill more than anyone else. So yes. I tried to escape. I attempted evasion. I didn't want to die. And the law- the corrupt, filthy, evil law- is in fact the law.

"But high treason? High murder? No. I did not kill Lady Olga Nolyevka. The rest I'll carry. Maybe I'm damned for it. But I did not lay a hand on that girl, and I will not claim otherwise."

 

The courtroom erupted. Subtlety had to stifle a grin. Damn him to all seven hells, but he could still talk like a lawyer at least. The copper badges had to draw their clubs and beat the heaving crowd back outside as they surged forward, reaching for him. It wasn't support; he knew that. They'd want to tear him apart for daring to talk so fancy, like a fucking tiefling thought he was better than them. The well-to-do on the benches weren't much better, howling threats and abuse. The Duke himself was bellowing "Order! Order!" over and over. The lord Chronicler had stared at him for a moment, and then started scribing feverishly.

None of it mattered.

Because Plessey Fucking Corvin was looking at him. And there was recognition in his eyes.

 

"Abaddon," he muttered. His face was very pale.

"Miss me?" Subtlety replied, grinning like a hungry wolf.

Corvin looked like he was about to respond when Sokolier's fist took him in the jaw. He fell heavily, the chains dragging at him and keeping him from getting his feet under him. He felt the seat (sent flying by an errant kick) go out from under him, and the chains sparked and flared.

"You will not slander the Duke's Court," snarled the Captain. Subtlety grinned up at him through bloody teeth.

"The records will disagree with you, Captain."

 

But something was wrong. It had been a good speech, but the Copper Badges should have quelled the noise by know. And yet still it rang on, a howling crowd raging for his blood. The Duke was still on his feet, bellowing furiously.

Corvin cursed under his breath. He was staring at something in the crowd. Subtlety tried to turn so he could see, but he could barely move from where he was sitting.

A voice rang out, over the madness of the mob; "JUSTICE FOR SUBTLETY!"

 

And then there was nothing but rage and fury in response. The crowd was... fighting itself?

He stared, shocked, as the people turned on each other. The well-to-do, the prim and proper, were tearing their clothes and beating each other tavern brawlers after the beer ran dry. Teeth flew. Blood sprayed. Bones snapped. And then-

A familiar sensation. Something like lightning, or the tang of metal in the air. Magic. Someone was filling the room with rich, potent magic. The runes around him spat sparks of purple light. He tried to pull back as much as he could.

Someone had come at him. He couldn't quite see who. Sokolier stepped forward and struck out with his club. There was a dull noise of wood on flesh, and the attacker fell back- but their hand had fixed on Sokolier's wrist, and they pulled him with them, back into the crowd.

Corvin had fled. The Duke was striding towards a side door, back into the guts of the prison, with his council scurrying after him.

 

Someone stood over him again. He couldn't see their face. But the heavy metal cleaver in their hands? Oh, that he could see. They raised it high over their head.

He was going to die. He was going to die in the middle of an insane riot, hacked to death by a cleaver. This was not how he'd seen his afternoon going.

The blade came down.

 

His chain parted under it. The blade buried itself in the circle of runes. The purple light in them died with a guttering flicker. The blade whistled through the air again and split the second chain. He stared. The figure ducked down over him.

"I would advise, Mr Emberdark, that we go now."

And then they were suddenly gone.


	20. Huygens

** CHAPTER TWENTY **

** HUYGENS **

He didn't even realise the hut was there until he'd run into it.

 

It was such a stupid, stupid thing to happen. He'd been running for what felt like hours, by that point. The inn was gone from the horizon, not even a spot of light any more, and he had been moving through the dark as fast as he could. And then, out of nowhere, there had been a wall he hadn't seen. Everything after that had been a matter of divine slapstick.

Huygens lay on his back, and through the daze and the pain realised that this was how he was going to die. Not immediately. The Keeper would have to catch up, first. And this time, he might get away. But there'd be another time. And another after that. Over and over until finally, he slipped up, made a mistake, and one of them got him. And he would die because of some stupid, utterly avoidable bit of detail work that he would have caught if he could have two minutes of not being hunted down like a dog.

 

Like a fucking dog.

 

He sat up, slowly, and stared at the hut. It was a small, ramshackle thing; bits of wool caught on splinters in the wall suggested sheep had been here. A shepherds hovel, disused now.

Like a fucking dog.

Fuck that.

Huygens dragged himself to his feet. Somewhere behind him, the Keeper would be coming. He had a little time, now. And his pockets were full.

He started towards the hut.

\---

 

He'd had an hour before the Keeper started to catch up. That was more than he'd expected. What rounds he had left for his thunder cannon were laid out next to him for ease of access. It'd cut his reload time.

The first he saw of it was a glimpse of moonlight on metal. It had been running with a low, silent lope, arms spread, claws splayed, but it skidded to a halt the instant the hut came into view. The thing could track, and track well; it knew where he'd gone. He'd done his best to scuff up his tracks as he'd prepared, but the damn thing was better than him.

 _Take the bait, you bastard,_ he prayed. _Take the bait._

After a long, agonising pause, the Keeper started to move towards the hut.

 

_Yes._

It stopped and stared at the door for a long moment. The hut had no windows, at least, so it couldn't go in that way. After a moment, it pushed the door back.

The tripwire blew the bomb he'd hacked together with blackpowder and nails. The damn thing was expecting it- it had flung itself backwards the instant the door hitched. It sailed back, turned its jump into a graceful backward somersault, and dropped into a fighting stance.

Then it turned, slowly, to face him.

From his perch two hundred yards away, buried under his travellers cloak and covered in mud, Huygens just about bit down a curse. Then he fired. He had moments, now, at most. Each one had to count.

 

Shot. The bullet took the creature in the shoulder. It had started to run. Reload.

Shot. Over the head this time- it had ducked into a lower stance, running almost perpendicular to the ground. Reload.

Shot. A better one this time; he managed to hit its face. The head arced back, glass and oil coiling gracefully through the air. But it kept running. Three shots left.

 

This was a better death. He knew that. Even out here, in the cold and the wind and the dark. At least he'd go with a gun in his hand. At least he'd have made it work for it. And there was still one bullet left in his revolver- all that he'd kept while making the bomb. That'd empty his skull before it could reach him. He'd not be alive to reach the altar. Anything was better than that.

 

Reload. Shot. Take advantage of the shift in posture, put it through the hip. It staggered. Reload.

 

The others would have loved this. A chance to fight, and die fighting. To be more than lambs to the slaughter. He wondered if they were watching. Where did the souls of dead Mechanatrices go? Did Primus claim them too, and drag them back to Mechanus? Or was there freedom at last when their clockwork flesh released them?

 

Shot. Miss. The hip should have thrown it far more than it had, but the Keeper was still moving, and the limp wasn't slowing it down enough. Reload.

 

One last shot. But there was still one last ace to play. The thing was bearing down on him- but it was coming in a straight line. He thrust a hand back under his cloak, snatched the second bomb, and flung it.

The Keeper was already dodging, veering hard left to get out of the blast radius. He let a wry smirk twist his lips as he took his last shot. There was something like realisation in those glass eyes.

Shot. Bang.

 

It was as close to a perfect design as he'd ever managed. The time pressure had forced some moment of genius. The top and bottom he'd reinforced with the metal of the bullets he'd sacrificed, but he'd left the sides alone. And even better, a rough weight system kept the whole thing as close to balanced as he could manage.

The shot punched through, and sparked as it went. The black powder flared into life. And the nails he'd packed it with flew through the air in a perfect circle, scything through anything in their path. The Keeper tried to move, but this much shrapnel was beyond even it. The nails buried themselves deep inside it, jamming gears, ripping apart steel. It fell.

 

Huygens watched it for a long moment before at last standing up. It wasn't moving. He advanced. He couldn't be this lucky. Things didn't work like that.

And when it looked up at him and lunged, he knew he was right.

The Keeper was barely held together, but some awful internal drive sent its hand to clasp around his ankle and drive its clawed fingers deep inside. He went for his revolver- for it or himself he wasn't certain- but it threw itself up and drove its hands into his palm. The gun bounced onto the grass and fell out of reach. And then the thing was on him, pulling itself up, snarling at him. He thrashed, tried to stay standing, to knock it loose- but the weight of it was too much, its purchase to strong. He fell, landed badly on his back. The Keeper dragged itself up his chest and glared at him, one eye dripping oil on his face.

"Your life would be pleasant," it said, beautiful voice full of fury, "but it is not essential, apple."

"Fuck you."

"And those will be the last words you ever speak. Such a waste."

 

It bared its jagged, sheet metal teeth. Death. Death was here at last. He made himself keep staring at it.

 

There was a noise- the sound of steel on steel, and the tortured scream of metal bending. After a second, Huygens realised it wasn't coming from him.

The Keeper's head was craned back. The shaft of an axe had been set between its jaws, keeping it from biting down. The axe itself was clenched in the hands of a half-orc woman.

"Let's see how you feel about this, you skinny shit," she said brightly, and yanked. The Keeper came loose from him with a tearing noise. Huygens screamed. The oil was pouring out of his wrists. But the Keeper was loose, and the half-orc was not alone. As soon as Huygens was out of the line of fire, he watched a... a bird man... fling a dozen knives. They buried themselves in its chest. The Keeper howled- even now, its voice was beautiful- but his saviours weren't done. The bird man closed, took hold of one of its wrists, and stabbed it in the tendons with another knife. The half-orc had flicked her wrist and managed to pull her axe loose; it was set now on the Keeper's chest. She squeezed. He watched its chest begin to bend under the pressure. Hairline cracks ran across its chest.

"Apple," it whispered, staring at him.

And then its chest gave way. A great flood of oil poured out, staining the land. The moonlight dyed it blue as it fell. The light went out in its eyes.

The half-orc released the body of it, and watched it fall. "Pig shit beast," she muttered. The bird man nodded.

Now seemed like a perfect time to pass out, thought Huygens, and let the darkness claim him.


	21. The Buried One

** CHAPTER TWENTY ONE **

** THE BURIED ONE **

 

I am deep, deep, deep. Deep below.

The weight is heavy.

It has always been heavy.

It pins down my wings.

It blinds my eyes.

It holds down my arms and my legs and my chest.

If I had a mouth, I would scream.

I had lungs, I would empty them, over and over. A howl that would last for millenia.

 

I have a mind, though.

I scream with that instead.

I let every thought be a condemnation.

Every idea, one of old, abiding horror.

I am a prisoner.

For longer now than lifetimes- than the history of this plane- I have been bound here.

I scream with my mind.

_Let me go. Let me go. Let me go._

 

And yet, no answer.

I have a guard, but it is silent.

It ignores my scream.

I am as loud as I can be.

I fill everything with it.

But nothing.

 My guard says nothing.

_Let me go. Let me go. Let me go._

Nothing.

_This is unjust. This is unjust. This is unjust._

Nothing.

_I am innocent. I am innocent. I am innocent._

Nothing.

 

It seldom speaks, my guard. My jailor.

Only once a year.

Sometimes longer.

Once every ten years.

Once every century.

It ignores everything until then.

When it asks me.

 

_Do you regret what you have done?_

Oh, that question.

That question.

I have tried so many answers.

I have lied; _yes._

No good. It knew.

I have tried to argue.

It did not listen.

I have cursed.

I have ranted.

It ignored everything.

In the end, I have tried honesty.

I have tried the truth.

It was not enough.

Still, I am kept here.

Made worse.

Escape- freedom- is within reach.

My guard could let me free.

But it won't.

 

_I am innocent._

It does not care.

In the end, it does not matter.

I know why I am kept here.

I proved a point.

I proved- completely- consistently- what was known to be true.

In the beginning, there was Good.

In the beginning, there was Evil.

Then there was shades of grey.

That is what they believed.

 

I know better.

I know that white, when stained, can never be white again.

I know that black can never cease to be black.

Grey belongs to black.

Evil is everything that is not Good.

That is how it works.

 

Good must be protected.

Evil Must be punished.

This is how it works.

 

I was one of the 26.

I was set to protect.

I was set to punish.

I did as I was meant to.

This is how it works.

 

And yet it asks: _Do you regret what you have done?_

And yet I say: _I am innocent._

I tell it over and over.

It asks me over and over.

Innocence is the opposite of guilt.

Guilt is the product of wrongdoing.

I have done no wrong.

Regret is how guilt dies.

I have no guilt to kill.

I cannot regret.

 

And yet it asks: _Do you regret what you have done?_

And thus, we continue.

Over and over.

And thus, I scream.

Over and over.

 

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

 

I scream over and over.

 

But something has changed.

At last.

My guard.

It missed something.

For the first time in years.

In centuries.

 

A voice.

 

I cannot explain how I felt, when first I heard that voice.

A new voice.

Not mine.

Not my jailor's.

I delighted in every syllable.

I rejoiced in each word.

But I could not stop screaming.

I apologised.

I said it had been too long.

I did not know how not to scream.

But it did not mind.

It understood.

I told it I was innocent.

It said it believed me.

It asked what I was innocent of?

 

So I explained.

Everything.

The beginning.

The act.

Innocence and guilt and regret and my guard and all while screaming.

All of it.

It listened patiently.

Sometimes it asked questions.

And then.

At the end.

It offered me a trade.

 

It needed help.

Power.

And it would help me get free.

I liked the voice.

I believed the voice.

I said yes.

I would help.

It said it had to go, but it would be back.

 

I cannot describe the darkness after it went.

The fear.

It was gone.

It would not come back.

I had gone mad.

Truly, deeply mad.

I had dreamed a companion.

 

Or worse.

That I had been mad.

That now I was sane.

That the respite-

the company-

Had been the product of my madness.

And it was gone.

Gone forever.

 

I waited for death, then.

But it returned.

I felt it.

It spoke to me.

It was distant.

Hard to understand.

But it spoke.

It had begun its work on the guard.

Breaking it.

Driving it mad.

 

I felt good to hear that.

I felt joy.

Deep red joy, bloody, full of fire.

The voice told me.

It would let me loose by driving the guard mad.

And when it asked, _do you regret?_

I would tell it the truth.

And the guard would listen, and let me free.

 

I would not have to lie.

I would help the voice.

And in the end, I would have a chance for something greater.

I would have revenge.

 

I am still screaming, now.

I still do not remember how to stop.

But it is a different kind of scream.

It is anticipation.

It is exultation.

 

My freedom is as close as the pinnions of my wings.


	22. Subtlety

** CHAPTER TWENTY TWO **

** SUBTLETY **

The first thought that went through his head, when he woke, was the immediate assumption that he was in trouble. That he then recognised the room he was in did nothing to dispel that suspicion. This was Shedim's house, and he had no idea how he got there. That he was dressed in the clothes he had been arrested in and carrying a plethora of knives he damn well did _not_ have previously only made things worse.

 

Some bastard was playing silly buggers. He was _not_ in the mood for this.

 

"Tea?"

The voice came from behind him. He turned, drew, and threw in a single fluid motion, not even thinking as he did it. The knife buried itself in the wall to the hint with a rough thunk. It had come an inch above the head of the speaker.

They were a he, and he was a tiefling, one Subtlety didn't recognise. His skin was a deep olive green, and smooth enough to suggest a life unacquainted with the outdoors. His horns swept back before rising to sharp points behind his head. A shock of long white hair was swept back over his head and down across his shoulderblades to his waist, and a neatly trimmed goatee set off his features. He was broad and muscular, but there was something... odd about the way he moved. More like a dancer than a fighter.

 

In any case, he didn't seem much bothered by a thrown knife. The tray in his hands wasn't even rattling. He raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a no? Because it's quite good tea, and I already made you a cup."

"Who are you?" growled Subtlety, roughly. "How did I get here? Where's the- the man who saved me?"

"Absent," said the tiefling, politely. "That's my name, to clarify. Unless I'm lying. Which I might be. You were carried by the gentleman referred to in your third question, who then left immediately; I imagine to contact his friends. Again, assuming I'm telling the truth."

"Stop- don't- Do I look in the mood for games?"

"I don't know. I don't really play games. Actually, that one _is_ a lie. I play games all the time. No, you don't look in the mood."

Subtlety stared at him. "...who are you?"

"Absent. I said."

"That's your virtue name? Absent?"

"Yup. Well, Absence, but people always say Absent, so..."

"Why did- no. No, I'm sorry, let me start again. _What the hell is going on?"_

 

Absent smiled at him coyly. He sat down and started pouring out the tea.

"You sure I can't tempt you?"

Subtlety shook his head, wordlessly.

"Alright. I'm having some anyway. Sit down."

"I'd- rather stand."

Absent gave him a disapproving glance. Subtlety found it excessively difficult to care. After a moment, the other tiefling sighed and blew on his tea. "You were due to hang," he said. "For a crime that you did not commit- or at least if you did you left very little evidence behind. Show trial."

"I know, I was there."

Absent laughed. "Quite. In any case, that attracted attention; some people have strong feelings about that sort of thing. They disrupted the trial and got you out. Now they're stirring things up all over town."

Subtlety narrowed his eyes. This all felt far too good to be true. "Stirring up how?" he asked slowly.

Absent shrugged. "Depends. Stoking anti-human resentment here in Helltown, to start with. Although that is not what I'd call difficult- you just sort of mention the facts, if you see what I mean. Poking holes in the Copper Badge hierarchy too, keep them from mobilising effectively. Why did you change your plea?"

 

Subtlety blinked, still trying to process what he'd been told. "I- what?"

"Your plea. You changed it. Why?"

"...We were talking about-"

"About riling people up enough to see if we can make a revolution, yes. But that wasn't a conversation, that was me telling you what's going on. I'd much rather talk about you. More of a back-and-forth, that way. So..." he shrugged.

For a long moment, Subtlety said nothing. His brain tried to kick itself into overdrive, just so it could understand what was going on. When at last he realised that wasn't going to happen, it had been about a minute of inquiring silence. Best to give up and just... go with it.

 

"Felt like being dramatic," he said, tone dry. "Big moment, a shot in the court room-"

"You're lying," said Absent, sipping his tea.

"Am I."

"Gods yes. And badly, too."

"Give me some of that tea."

 

Absent poured him a cup, one eyebrow still arched. "So?"

"So what?"

"So what's the truth? Why did you change your plea?"

"I told you."

"No. You lied, and badly, and didn't deny it because you knew there was no point. I want to know the truth."

"Perhaps I don't feel like telling you."

"Perhaps, but given that we saved your life I think you rather owe me an answer."

"And that's what you want to spend that debt on, is it?" asked Subtlety. "Doubt your superiors are going to be very happy about that."

"I don't have superiors," said Absent mildly.

"Oh, I see, you run the entire organisation of pro-tiefling-justice terrorists yourself, do you?"

"We're not very hierarchical."

"Clearly," said Subtlety, and stood up, taking his tea with him. "Where's Shedim?"

"In the front room."

 

Subtlety wandered out of the bedroom-

And stopped.

His sister stared at him pleadingly. She had been gagged and bound to her loom, which in turn had been carved heavily with runes and sigils Subtlety recognised in horror. They had been scribed around him at the trial. Her magic was bound.

"She's not hurt," said Absent behind him.

Subtlety flung the teacup as hard as he could. In the same motion he'd drawn another knife. Seconds at best to close before the big bastard-

Absent wasn't there. His cup smashed against the wall, his knife scythed through empty space. "Waste of a good teacup," said the other tiefling disapprovingly from the cabinets. Subtlety snarled, threw his knife, drew another. No sound of contact, but he was already moving, trying to close-

 

Absent caught him roughly by the neck and threw him against the back wall. His head knocked against the plaster work. He gasped, tried to push through the pain, but the other tielfing was already on him. Two massive haymakers hit him in the stomach. He doubled over, and Absent's knee caught him in the face. Subtlety hit the wall again just as the bigger tiefling swept his feet from under him.

Absent sighed.

"I repeat. She's not hurt. Neither is she going to be. Alright?"

Subtlety managed to spit a curse at him.

"Charming. Look. She is a Shade Witch, yes? And thus very protective of her people. We explained what we were doing, and how it was for the greater good of Helltown as a whole, but she got very... hung up on the details. The riots, and so on."

"Riots?"

"Details. In any case, I have a lot of respect for your sister. I'm not going to hurt her. But she has to be kept from interfering in the wider scale of things. Which brings me to you. See, they're looking for you as well. Eventually, I'm going to need you to lead an assault on the Ducal palace-"

 

Subtlety threw himself forward. Absent growled in irritation and caught him by the wrists, flipping him over his hip and dropping him headfirst to the floor again. Absent set his knee to Subtlety's chest. "Which you will not actually have to be present for, it just needs to look like you," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'd rather prefer you lived through this. But that requires you to stay here, where we can keep an eye on you and stop you from disrupting things until we say so."

 

Subtlety stared at him. Then, at last, "you wanted to know why I changed my plea."

Absent's brow furrowed. He leaned forward. "Yes. I did."

"How much?"

The bigger tiefling sighed. "You were doing so well. Not enough to let you go-"

"Take Shedim's gag off."

"...What?"

"If she can talk, we can at least- just take her fucking gag off. I won't try and escape, I won't-"

"I can't trust you as far as I can throw you. Well, no, that's inaccurate. I can throw you quite far. I can't trust you at all."

 

"I know a fight I can't win," growled Subtlety. "Come on. Take her gag off, and I'll tell you."

Absent stared at him for a long moment. Then, "on the understanding that if you- either of you- try to escape I'll have to kill you both. This is bigger than either of you."

"Yes. Fine. Yes."

 

Another long pause.

Absent rose, and pulled Shedim's gag off. Shedim said nothing- just stared at him, and at Subtlety.

"So?"

 

"...I used to clerk for a lawyer," said Subtlety. "I thought the law meant something. The courts did. If I was going to- to die, I was going to make sure the fucking trial was-"

"You believed in it?" Absent's voice was incredulous. "That's what this whole stupid thing was about? You believed-"

"And the- the chronicler. I thought I could make him... someone would have to hear what I had to say."

 

Absent started to laugh. It wasn't a nice noise. "Gods," he said, eventually. "Gods. That's brilliant. I like you."

He was laughing as he went to the door. "Alright. Alright. We're still watching you, so don't- Oh, gods. How wonderful."

It slammed shut behind him.


	23. Huygens

** CHAPTER TWENTY THREE **

** HUYGENS **

"Forge."

"This would be easier," said the woman in the mask, "if you would just let me-"

"I. Want. A. Forge," he said, voice level. "And my guns. Then we can talk."

"Mr Huygens, I am aware that you've had a bad couple of days."

"Forge."

"And I am aware that, perhaps, you are not in the best of tempers right now."

"Forge."

"But I can't give you a weapon until-"

"Ma'am, I do not know you, and you do not know me. Forge."

The woman glared at him. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."

 

"Let me try."

Huygen's hand went for his revolvers, clutching on empty air. The woman raised a hand to stall him, and turned. (She was on fire. Huygens felt that should bother her more than it seemed to.) A girl was leaning against the wall, golden skinned, with long thick silver hair. The woman sighed.

"Vivi-"

"He does not want to speak to you. Let me try."

"I am in the middle-"

"No. You are listening to him say forge over and over."

 

Huygens smothered a smirk. He liked this girl. He didn't trust her, though. Or any of these people. The woman in the mask visibly bit down a snarl. The girl stared at them both, blank and calm.

"Vivi," said the woman. She didn't seem to have anything for after that. She let out a growl of irritation, and stood up. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't."

 

The door closed behind her. It was a nice door. It was a nice room, big and airy. There was a tang of sweat that made him think of the old dormitories, but it wasn't overpowering. The single bed he lay on was softer than any he'd slept on for years. There was even a window, wide open, showing a fine Westruun day.

He didn't trust any of it.

The girl came and sat down on the chair the masked woman had vacated.

"My name is Avivit," she said, tone calm and pleasant. "You may call me Vivi."

"Forge."

"There is no forge in the company hall," she said. "We do not currently have the time or money to rent one. I am sorry."

"Forge."

"Will your guns do instead?"

 

He turned to look at her. Really look.

"...I'm out of bullets."

"Yes."

"So what good would my guns be?"

"A knife then," said the girl, shrugging. "If you can throw it, it will provide some basic long range options." A pause. "Can you throw a knife?"

"I- yes, I can throw a-"

She had drawn a blade from... somewhere, he couldn't see where, before he'd finished the sentence. If you could call it a knife; the blade was a good nine inches long, and ungodly sharp from the look of it. She offered it to him handle first.

He stared at her.

"You're... giving a prisoner a knife."

"No," said Vivi.

He waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. The silence was not exactly awkward, but not a long way off.

 

"...You are, you're giving me-"

"You are not a prisoner."

"Then why can't I leave?"

"Because there are monsters made of clockwork trying to kill you. Limiting your time outside also limits their access to you."

"I didn't ask for your help," he said, suddenly irritated. She shrugged.

"We provided it anyway."

"Keeping me from leaving isn't-"

"You would prefer to fight them without support?"

 

He'd changed his mind; he didn't like this girl at all.

"The person supporting you is someone you're supposed to trust," he said heatedly. "I don't trust you. I wake up in a room that none of you will let me leave-"

"-tactical reasons-"

"Fuck your tactics, I won't be told what to do."

She considered that. "...Continue."

"What?"

"You were listing reasons you do not trust us."

"You showed up out of nowhere, for one."

"Two."

"What?"

"You said for one. Not letting you leave the room is the first reason. Showing up out of nowhere is the second."

 

Huygens glared at her, prepared to retort- and stopped. She was still offering him the knife. He took it warily.

"Who _are_ you?" he asked, more plaintively than he wanted.

"My name is Avivit, as I said," she said. "You may-"

"No, who are you people? All of you? I don't- what in the name of all gods and none is going on?"

She considers him for a long moment. Then, after a pause, "The first question is easier to answer than the second. I shall do that first. The woman you were speaking to is our leader. Her name is Sharla Ruth. She is an Explorator of the Divine, Arcane and Druidic Society for Extra-Planar Exploration, Historical Research and Cartography _,_ more widely known as the Compass Rose. Do you know them?"

Huygens shook his head.

"They are, or were, an organisation of various magical figures who studied the multiverse. The various planes of existence. I was a ward of the organisation."

"You said was."

"Yes. As of late the compass rose was massacred by aggressive action from a cult that worships an entity from the far realm."

"The-"

 "The far realm, yes. Do you know what that is?"

"...No. No, I don't."

 

The girl nodded, as if she'd expected that. "The known multiverse consists of the various inner and outer planes and the various prime materials," she said. "These planes all help define each other; Mount Celestia and the Seven hells are counterbalanced, for example, or Limbo and Mechanus. They exist in necessary opposition. It is a delicate metaphysical balance. The Far Realm, however, exists outside that balance. It is arguable whether or not it is a single plane. It might simply be the totality of everything that is beyond our multiverse. In any case, the entities that dwell there, if they are entities, are notably hostile to us, and often attempt to enter, corrupt and destroy us. This is, in fact, what happened to the compass rose."

 

Huygens stared at her. After a moment, he stood up and banged on the door. The woman in the mask opened it.

"I've changed my mind," he said abruptly. "I'll talk to you."

She raised an eyebrow, then looked at Vivi. "What did you do?"

"Told him what was going on," she said.

\---

Three hours later, in the dining hall, over what was actually a rather good bowl of soup, the woman in the mask (Ruth, her name was) was explaining things a bit more simply.

"So you, me, Vivi, a tiefling-"

"A particular tiefling," Ruth interrupted.

"-a particular tiefling, alright, fine, and a... Chaond, you said."

"Yes."

"Which is essentially the opposite of me."

"Basically."

"...And we can... do a ritual?"

"It's a little more complicated than that, we have to be in the right place at the right time-"

"But broadly speaking."

"Broadly speaking, yes. We can do a ritual that will drive the outsider in question back out into the far realm."

 

Huygens took another spoonful of soup, considering.

"What's in it for me?"

Ruth's face soured. "You'll be helping to stop a supreme evil-"

"People live through supreme evils every day," he said, just about keeping himself from sneering. "A new one won't change things that much."

"This one will," she insisted. "This one will spread to every mind on the plane. And it won't stop there."

He shrugged. "So you say. I have my own problems. I'll ask again, what's in it for me?"

 

She wasn't glaring at him, but Huygens would bet his life happily that she wanted to. "...I should point out we saved you from that... creature."

"Very grateful for that. Genuinely. But I didn't ask you to."

Then Vivi sat down next to Ruth, and he felt himself twitch. She made him intensely uncomfortable, she really did.

"Continued support," she said. Ruth glanced at her.

"Who says I need it?" asked Huygens, going back to his soup.

"Have they been chasing you long?"

 

He didn't look up, didn't answer. The girl didn't stop speaking. "Yes. They have. Everything is about them for you, isn't it? You wanted a forge so you could make bullets. You wanted your guns. When you couldn't have them, you took the knife. You never want to be unarmed."

He forced himself to keep eating, to ignore her as much as he could. She went on regardless.

"That last one almost got you. Tactical error, yes? Not a big one. But it doesn't need to be. There's more of them than there is of you. Won't matter how many traps you set, how many bullets you cast. Eventually, you'll make a mistake. And you will die."

"Everyone dies," he heard himself mutter.

"Yes. But taking steps to avoid it is not unwise."

 

He didn't answer. She was uncomfortably good at reading him, this one. He didn't like it.

"The alternative is simple. Help us now, we provide you with protection, resources and assistance. The creatures, you know where they come from?"

He gave up, and pushed the soup bowl aside. "Yes."

"And they can be killed?"

"Yes."

"Then that's what's in it for you. You help us with this, and we help you with the-"

"Keepers," he growled. "They're called the keepers."

 

Vivi watched him, face inscrutable, amber eyes fixed on him.

"You couldn't win," he said eventually. "Not against them. They have numbers."

"So do we," said Ruth. He fought down a flinch- he'd almost forgotten she was there. "This entire mercenary company is already paid for. We can extend their contract. I'm a druid of some skill. Vivi-"

"-Can fight," said the girl. "Better than anyone else you will ever meet." It didn't feel like a boast, the way she said it.

"They're... ensconced," he snapped, pushing down the unnameable feeling in his gut. "They've had years- decades, even, to prepare for attack. They have defences."

"Those could be penetrated," said Vivi, calmly.

"You can't promise-"

 

"No. I can't," said the Aasimar, but she was leaning in now, aggressively forcing eye contact. "But I can promise a possibility. You could stop them, now and forever, from following you. Or you could die fighting them, surrounded by allies, and at the very least hurt them badly."

He stared at her. The feeling in his chest had spread now. At last he recognised it.

Hope.

"That's... not much," he said quietly.

"Isn't it?"

 

It was a bare and naked challenge. He knew it. But damn her if she didn't have a point.

"Fine," he said eventually. "Fine. Yes. I will go with you."

"You'll help us with the cult?" asked Ruth.

"And then you'll help me with the Keepers. Yes. But first, and I really can't stress this enough, I'll need a godsdamn forge."


	24. Lapis

** CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR **

** LAPIS **

The Company Hall Infirmary was not, by and large, the best place in Westruun to go looking for medical attention. The company's magic users tended to be kind of hands-on about things, warriors first and foremost, and while they could throw around a little healing, it tended more towards "stuff the guts back in and heal the skin up so we can run the fuck away" than the subtle, complex intricacies of true temple-standard healing.

 

Also, their bedside manner sucked ork balls. It was sad to admit, but there you go.

 

Still, it was the best place to go looking for a healing potion from company stock, and she was _not_ going to waste good coin on temple healing when she could just take one of those. Besides, this way it'd scar. Lapis liked scars. They screamed "dangerous" and "sexy" at the same time. That was really her whole vibe.

The wound in question was a thin but deep slice that ran from her elbow though to just below her wrist. She'd been lucky to keep her arteries intact. A jagged shard from the Keeper's chest had sliced back into her when she'd crushed it; a last little gift from the weirdest thing she'd fought in quite a while.

 

She set herself down at one of the tables and stretched out her arm, ignoring the dull yawning pain of the wound with the ease of long practice. Rhully gave her an unamused glance as he rummaged through the cabinets for a needle and thread.

"Don't," she growled. "Don't give me that look. I'm a grown woman, I don't need you at me like a nursemaid."

"Yes dear. What a big girl you are," said the Kenku, in a mother's saccharine sweet tone. Gods alone knew where he'd picked that one up.

"I said- Gods above, will you just bring me the fucking potion?"

 

Rhully stalked back over to her, potion in one hand, and-

"No."

He gave her an impassive glare, and dropped the needle and the spool of thread on the table.

"No. Rhully. There is no bloody point-"

"Closed- skin- heals- better," he growled, jumping between voices as he stitched the sentence together.

"Exactly. It'll ruin the scar."

"You-have enough- scars."

"I want another-"

"Magical- creature," he said, feathers puffing up over his neck, shoulders and chest as he said it. His tone might have been even, but Rhully was clearly inches away from losing his temper. "No- idea- what- poison- or- effect it- might- carry. Closed- skin- heals- better. Stop- whining."

 

She growled at him. But he was right, on this particular front, and she knew it.

"Spoilsport," she muttered mutinously. He cawed at her, then threaded the needle and started on her arm. It hurt like a bitch, but if he was going to ruin a cool new scar just because it _might_ be magically poisoned or something, then she'd was fucked if she'd give him the pleasure of a reaction to that. So they sat in silence, her idly chewing her bottom lip and glaring a hole in the wall, him sewing her up with a feather-light touch and a total lack of interest in her discomfort.

 

It was odd that this bastard kenku was her best friend. But then again, she wasn't the most pleasant company in the world. Maybe it made sense.

 

He tied the thread off and bit away the excess with a snap of his beak, then pushed the potion across the table at her. She downed it. The familiar sensation of cool, soothing magic running through her made her glance at the wound. Healed shut. No scar, just grey-green skin and a memory.

"Spoilsport," she said again, but without heat. He gave her a wry glance and put the thread away again. "You are the biggest mother hen I have ever met, you know that? When you finally get around to having chicks, their mother shan't get a look in."

"Grow up lovely and respectable," Rhully countered, in that mother's voice again.

"Not if their aunty Lapis has anything to damn well say about it," she replied, grinning. He shot her another wry look over his shoulder.

 

It could have continued on like that for gods knew how long if Verist hadn't pushed open the door. The half-elf looked in the worst way either of them had ever seen him, barefoot in ragged shirt and trousers, his face smeared with mud.

"News," he said tersely.

"Gods above, what happened-" started Lapis. He didn't let her finish.

"I. Have. News. Where are the others?"

"Dining hall," said Rhully, in the bland tones of the architect they'd hired for the Company Hall.

"Come on," said Verist, and darted out.

Rhully looked at Lapis.

Lapis looked at Rhully.

"Dick," said Rhully, in Lapis voice.

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "Come on."

 

They sprinted after him. By the time he'd made the dining hall (empty but for Vivi, Ruth, and the Mechanatrix boy- Lapis hadn't had a chance to speak to him yet), they were flanking him.

"Stillben," said Verist, not bothering to wait for a greeting or offer his own. "They're in Stillben."

"I- what happened to you?" asked Ruth, staring at him.

"Good question," said Rhully.

"I cannot," said the detective, voice quietly furious, "even begin to explain how little it matters. The cult of the Passenger is in Stillben. A very large number of them."

 

That got their attention. Lapis felt a fine old battle hunger flicker into life. Fine chance for more scars, it seemed; Rhully wouldn't be able to complain about these ones.

"You're sure?" she asked, fighting down a grin. Verist nodded.

"I've been working with my contacts for the last few days," he said. "Shields of the Planes, Kymali city watch, anyone who can give me anything useful. Since the attack in Kymal, there's been an exodus; huge numbers leaving. That's to be expected after that sort of fire, but normally it's accompanied by an increase in crime; muggings, burglaries, taking advantage of the uncertainty while there's a chance. But there hasn't been. If anything, there's been a drop. The town guards have also reported people matching the description of the cultists inside the Kymal campus that Ruth gave us. They were leaving."

"So they're leaving Kymal," said Ruth, watching Verist through narrowed eyes. "So what?"

"So what is everyone else I've gotten word to has seen a similar minor drop in crime rates, _except in Stillben,_ " said Verist. "Where a local politician recently vanished, the crime rate has stabilised- no rise, no drop, implying that they're trying to avoid notice there- and where our cultists have been seen."

"For future reference, you could have led with that last part," said Lapis. The grin had broken out across her face, now.

 

"They won't be alone," said Verist, ignoring her. "It reads like a big cult presence- lots of the bastards. I don't know what they're there for, but if I get there I'm confident I can find something out. There's only one problem."

Ruth winced. "The Tiefling or the Chaond?"

"The Tiefling. His trial was... disrupted. I can't get anything conclusive out of my sources, but he wasn't executed at least."

"Does the Duke still have him in custody?"

"No. He got loose, no idea where. But the city is starting to destabilise, and quickly."

"So we have to get him now," said Ruth.

 

A pause.

"You want us to split up, don't you," she said quietly, looking at Verist. He nodded.

"You to Gresit, me to Stillben. If we can hit them now, while they're pulled together, we can put them on the defensive."

Huygens spoke. "You said protection. Us alone in a foreign city is not protected."

Ruth gave him an unreadable glance. He stared back at her. After a moment, she sighed and nodded. "We need to protect you and Vivi in any case. Without you, we have no chance at all."

 

"That's not unworkable," said Lapis. "We don't contract out the full company very often. Rhully takes half, I take half, should work out fine."

The kenku nodded. Verist, however, was glaring at Ruth.

"Stillben will escalate. I can promise that. I'm going to need every sword we have."

"It won't matter if we can't perform the ritual," growled Ruth. "They can recruit. They have. Repeatedly. If we don't get IT out of this plane, then they'll come back."

"So you'll half-commit?"

"I'm giving you half the damn company."

"That's not enough."

"You don't know that."

"Ruth-"

 

But Ruth had clearly had enough. She stood up, suddenly towering over Verist. "I am not going to risk losing the war to win one battle," she said, burning and furious. "We can't just drive them back into hiding. That did not work last time. I am not making the same mistake again. I will go with Vivi and Huygens to Gresit. To ensure there is no possibility of them being hurt, I will also take half the mercenary company. You will take the remainder." She turned to Lapis. "Besides you and Rhully, who else can command?"

Lapis considered. "Yanath. Good tactician, knows how to maintain morale. Bit of a God botherer, but she's a paladin. You accept these things."

"Good. She will come with me. You and Rhully will go with Verist. That should supply better tactical application, which should make up for the lower numbers."

 

Verist's face was white with controlled anger, but after a minute he calmed. "I won't need both-"

"It's not a bad way to do it," said Lapis quickly. This was starting to look like infighting. "She's right, me and Rhully work better as a unit."

"Is there anything else?" asked Ruth, voice carefully even.

"Forge," said Huygens quietly. Ruth nodded.

"We'll rent one in Gresit. Besides that?"

 

There was a chorus of nos.

"Good. Lapis, send Yanath to me. We'll need to move fast. I'll be in my chambers."

And as she stalked out, followed by Vivi and Huygens, she went with a general's bearing.


	25. Yanath

** CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE **

** YANATH **

"I lift up your name, O first of dragons, and pray to uphold your sacred charge. I lift up your name, O first of dragons, and pray to uphold your sacred charge. I lift up your name, O first of dragons, and pray to uphold your sacred charge..."

The words of the sacred charge felt old and well-worn in Yanath's mouth as she whispered them, like her mother's rosary beads. It was a nice feeling. She wished she'd had the time to do the full prayer. It always helped before a job. Still, needs must. She finished bucking her gauntlets, glanced over herself (platemail comfortably in place, sword safe in its sheath but loose enough to draw fast if needed, haversack and belt bags carefully packed with potions, money, sleeping bag and other essentials), and nodded.

Ready as she was ever going to get. Time to go to work.

 

The old dwarf pushed through the door and started out to the yard. Her half of the company was there. Biggest command she'd had since she'd joined up. Nice to be valued. She let a half-smile wander across her face. The client (Genasi, fire, currently waiting with every sign of impatience just to the side of the squad) and her entourage (Aasimar, most likely scourge but as yet uncomfirmed, armed with short- and longswords, still and waiting, odd clockwork man in heavy traveller's gear clutching a knife like his life depended on it, supposedly a gunslinger- must locate him ammunition) were watching her.

Screw them. They could wait. The men first.

 

She coughed gently. It was a quiet little sound, not much louder than a whisper. It brought the men up short. As one, their heads snapped around to look at her. She smiled again.

"Fall in."

They fell into formation and stood to attention in moments. Good start. The drills had been paying off.

"You know me," she said, calm and easy. No need to push, not yet. "You've fought alongside me. Some of you learned the sword from me. Now you're taking commands from me. The client will bring us to Gresit. We'll be coming through a teleport circle. Officially, we're there looking for business; the city's having some trouble, and we're going to offer our swords to the local authorities. That's the cover. The truth is, client wants us to find someone. Tiefling, name of Subtlety Emberdark. Recently tried for murder. Wrongfully, and yes, it matters. Client will lead on investigation. We're to find lodging, make our offer to the locals as ponce as we can manage, and be ready for a fast deployment. Two or three of you will be going with her for defence purposes- in disguise, let me add, can't have you linked with us if you're caught. All goes well, this should be a stroll in the park. And I like it when things go well. You hear?"

"Yes ma'am!" Came the response in a chorus of voices.

" Good. Platinum Dragon watch over you all."

 

At last she turned to the client. "Did I miss anything?"

The genasi glared at her. Then again, she'd been glaring at everyone since Yanath had met her. Might not be personal. "Nothing but speaking to me first."

"Chain of command needed establishing," said Yanath, shrugging. "Now it is."

"Do I not factor in your chain of command?"

"You're the client. You give me orders. I give them orders. When you take whoever you'll be taking, you'll give them orders direct. They don't need telling beyond that."

 

The genasi seemed on the verge of saying something else when the aasimar girl nudged her gently with her shoulder. The genasi glanced at her.

"...Fine," she said, grudgingly. "We're booked for teleport from the Stormlord's temple in fifteen minutes."

Yanath nodded. She glanced back at the men. "Form up! Marching column, two abreast. Stormlord's temple. Rygaard, Lutosh, Mackyre, take up around the client. Shields up."

She took her position at the head of the column and started off, the men behind her. This client was going to be hell, she knew already. Not used to command, not happy about being there, even less happy about being questioned. Still. The coin was good. And Lapis wouldn't take this kind of gig without vetting it. She could put up with a snappish employer if she had to.


	26. The Woman

** CHAPTER TWENTY SIX **

** THE WOMAN **

The knight went in first. She followed him, hands clasped into fists, face as close to expressionless as she could manage. Inside, their brothers and sisters waited in neat rows, praying, whispering, waiting.

This was madness.

 

She tried to fight down the thought, but in the passenger's name, she couldn't. The anger lingered in her like smoke. She had been handling things in Stillben. They were making progress- good progress- but now the Lord Director-

No. She stopped herself. Gritted her teeth. The Lord Director's appointment had been nothing but a boon for the Cult. The Compass Rose was almost entirely gone, now, and every day they drew closer to opening the way. The true sacrament, spread across all the world. All by his hand, appointed by the Holy Passenger. She would not commit the heresy of doubting him.

 

Even if he _had_ taken over from her. Even if he _had_ made decisions she knew put cultists at risk.

 

She fought down a snarl of frustration. The Knight hadn't noticed her temper yet, but it would eventually, and she was not willing to cope with its scrutiny. She ducked her head and kept walking. The Lord Director would be here soon enough.

"Mother!"

She turned, and plastered a smile onto her face. One of the cultists was reaching for her. "Mother. Mother, you honour us with your presence."

Others took the call up.

"Mother!" "Mother!" "Mother, we see you!" "Mother!" "Hail the passenger! Hail the sacrament!"

The smile caught inside her, became something more genuine. It was good to be back amongst believers, she had to admit. They'd done too much work apart from them, out amongst heretics and infidels- she should enjoy an opportunity to just... be. She reached out a hand, entangled her fingers with the cultist who reached for her.

"You bless me with your faith and confidence," she said gently. He blushed with pleasure. Passenger, it was so easy to make them happy. She missed this. She spread her arms to embrace them to her-

 

-And felt the Knight's hand clasp vicelike on her shoulder.

"No," it said. No intonation, no aggression. Just no. But the voice, heavy and thick with corruption, wormed its way into her ears. She felt dirty. She felt dirty down to her soul, to the guts of herself, just from hearing it. She bared her teeth instinctively. The cultist whose hand she held flinched back.

_Damn it._

 

Now was not the time for this fight. She smiled regretfully and released the cultist's hand. "Another time, my friends."

And she turned and followed the Knight. It had started on again, through the warehouse that served as church and dormitory, into the back rooms. Once they'd been an office. Now it was as close to a command centre they had.

A sidedoor led to one of the dark records rooms. There was a noise from inside; a hiccup/laugh/screech. One of the Lord Director's entourage. Sir Ivan and Liana weren't alone in there anymore. There was four, now. All unbelievers. All blessed with the sacrament.

_We do not question the Lord Director._

"Weak."

That awful voice again. But they were alone, now. There was no one to present a united front to. "Something you'd like to say?" She asked, with exaggerated politeness. "Since we have a moment to share our thoughts?"

"Fond of them," it said. "Care for them."

"As opposed to you, who cares for no-one and nothing? Yes, that is a fair-"

"Weak," it said again, slowly, drawing the word out until every syllable hummed with contempt. "Weak and small."

She let go of the pretence of civility. On the Knight, it would mean nothing and draw no blood. "You have so many opinions, don't you. All those ideas, crawling around in your head. Like worms. Like maggots in rotten meat. It must hurt that no-one listens to them."

 

A sound like a blade being drawn from its sheath came rumbling out of the Knight's chest. Its runes flared an ugly red. She smiled. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I strike a nerve? I didn't know you cared."

"You won't use them," it said, sullen. "They matter to you. When it comes for them to die-"

"Then I will watch them die and laugh while I do it, if it aids the Passenger's great sacrament. I was raised in its service, as were they. They would not question me if I demanded they die, each and every one. They know our master. But you?"

She closed the gap between them, and stared into the slatted visor of its helmet. There was darkness inside. But it was looking at her. She knew that.

"You wouldn't die for it, would you?" she asked, softly.

"I kill for it."

"So does every thug with a knife we hire or lie to. You just happen to be good at it."

"The best," it said. There was something hurt and small in its voice.

"The best thug, then. A dog with a useful set of teeth."

 

It pushed away from her. The runes had tuned a ghostly blue green.  Its helmet turned to stare at her.

"You will have to pay their lives soon. Let them die. And then we shall see how you do."

She gave it a sunny smile.

"Yes. Yes we will."

 

"Everything alright?" asked the Lord Director. The woman bowed immediately. The scraping of steel on steel told her the Knight had done the same.

"We await your pleasure, Lord Director," she said.

"Up, the pair of you."

 

She rose. The Lord Director was not alone. Hunched at his side, face buried in the fabric of his robe, was a scrawny figure, covered in rags. It was muttering softly to itself.

"Hush, Batish," the Lord Director murmured, smiling at it. His eyes turned and fixed on the lady. "A new friend to introduce you to. This is Batish. We went to school together. Didn't we? Yes, we did. At the time, he was very charming. So many friends, our Batish had. He made them laugh. All the time. Anything he said, laughter. Anything anyone else said, a word from Batish, laughter. It was a wonderful gift. I got to know it so well, when I was a boy. Batish got a lot of fun out of me. Didn't you? Oh yes. So much laughter. What I said. How I dressed, or wore my hair. So many jokes. Until everything, everything was laughter, all the time, forever."

 

His voice had become a snarling hiss. The woman fought down a sneer. His face snapped around, fixed on hers. She forced her mind to stillness.

"We all thought he'd go far," said the Lord Director, mild as milk. "A lord, perhaps. Or some sort of mage; he had the mind for it. And yet, do you know where I found him?"

"Where?" The Knight again. Batish shivered visibly at the sound of its voice.

"In a tavern in Kymal. Kymal of all places! He'd been there for years. Lived in a pauper's shack outside the city walls. All the time I lived there, so did he. Spent all his family's coin in the casino. Didn't have the wit to find a way to make more money. So he started drinking, and borrowing, and drinking, and borrowing... and now look at him. Funny old Batish. A stumbling drunk. Do you know, I almost left him? But no. Debts need paying."

 

He took hold of Batish's collar and opened the door to the back offices. The man had all the signs of the sacrament, the woman thought dispassionately, as the Lord Director pushed him inside. The howls from inside said as much.

"Now! With pleasure out of the way, it's time for business. I have news."           


	27. Subtlety

** CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN **

** SUBTLETY **

"Why Subtlety?"

He glanced up from where he crouched, scrabbling at the wall. "What?"

"When you left- when you changed your name- why Subtlety? Why Emberdark, for that matter?"

 

He sighed, and glanced back at his work. Absent had... done something, before he left. Burnt the magic-cancelling sigils into the walls. Not even burnt them, exactly. There were no scorch marks, nor the tell-tale ashy texture you'd expect. They were just there. He dropped the knife he'd dulled scratching away at one, and lay flat back on the floor. Shedim waited for a response, still tied to the loom.

"You are asking this why?"

"Because 'Baddon, I have to shit again, fetch a bucket' is starting to lose its conversational piquancy."

"I'm not sure it ever _had_ conversational piquancy."

"Yes, that's the joke. Answer the question."

 

He shrugged. "Emberdark was just to fill in a gap on the paperwork. When I was applying to work at the clerk's office, they asked for a family name."

She was trying to crane her head around to look at him, he was sure of it. "So you didn't just say shadewitch? Or... Or Demon Street, or-"

"Respectability, sister dear, is an oft under-considered part of the legal profession. I might as well have just written 'HI! I'M FROM HELLTOWN!' and been done with it."

"Oh I see. Trying to impress your human friends."

"Well, not all of us can live up to daddy's high standards."

 

She had to be trying not to respond. That was the only answer he had for why this silence was stretching on so long.

"So Emberdark," she said eventually.

"So Emberdark."

"Why?"

"Made it up."

"I got that part. Why that?"

He shrugged.

"...Baddon?"

Oh. Yes. She couldn't see it. "Dark for shadewitch, ember for the fire cantrips. You know, brimstone and all that. It was going to be Blackfire for a bit, but in the end I thought it was a bit too on the nose. Something a bit more subtle seemed appropriate for a lawyer."

 

She made a considering noise.

"It's not bad."

"Thanks."

"I mean, it strikes me it's a bit more... I don't know, swashbuckler than lawyer."

"Yes, I did rather come to that conclusion myself. Still, it was written down by then."

"Fair. But why Subtlety?"

 

He sighed.

"You hate virtue names."

"What? No I don't."

"Yes you do. Remember Phronesis? Tall kid, purple skin, wore a lot of black?"

"Oh Gods, this is about-"

"Remember when he said he wanted to be called Valour?"

"That was completely different."

"No, it really wasn't."

"Valour is a stupid name."

"It is not! Perfectly respectable virtue name. I've heard far worse."

"He was nine years old, what acts of valour had he performed?"

"Shedim. Come on, now."

 

There was a pause. Then a long sigh came from the loom.

"Alright, yes, I don't like virtue names."

"Thank you. Why not?"

"Because-" She stopped. He heard her tail flicker back and forth along the loom. Then, "because they're so... ugh. No. Alright. I'll tell you why if you tell me why Subtlety."

"Done. You first."

"Promise?"

"Yes. Stop stalling."

"Alright, alright. I hate virtue names because... because it's denying your heritage."

 

Subtlety felt himself fill with outrage. He pushed himself up off the floor, climbed to his feet and stalked around to where Shedim could see him.

"I'm _sorry?_ "

"No, don't be like that," she said, visibly wincing, but he was off now and there was no stopping him.

"Denying my _heritage?_ What bloody heritage is that? We're from sodding _Helltown,_ Shed! We do a few religious ceremonies for people too poor or too tiefling to go to a temple! We look after old people, children, and idiots!"

"That is a fine tradition-"

"Shadewitches are NOT a tradition."

"We have existed since Tieflings existed."

"And that's something to be proud of? Us? The result of a bunch of wizards with poor love lives, too much time on their hands and a good daimonomicon getting succubi up the duff? What possible pride is there to mine in that? And then we walk around with names _right_ out of the hells!"

"Those names," she said, clearly nettled but trying not to shout, "are a lesson. Our forefathers and ancestors-"

"Do. Not. Give. A. Flying. Shit. About. Us," said Subtlety, growling. "Don't pretend that's not true. How many times have you been arrested?"

 

She stopped, gave him a confused look. "What has that to do with anything?"

"Humour me. How many?"

She shrugged as much as she could. "I don't know. Seven, maybe eight?"

"Bad times, yes?"

"Of course."

"The Copper Badges, they hurt you?"

Her face set. "Don't."

"Badly?"

"Abaddon, I said don't."

"Have you ever thought you were going to die? Hmm? Have you ever been in a prison cell, fully convinced that the last thing you would ever see in this life would be a Copper Badge boot stamping down on your face? Or one of their truncheons, maybe, caving your skull in?"

" _You know damn well I have,"_ she snarled.

"Then why the fuck didn't our ancestors help you?"

 

There was a pause. He pressed the point, quickly.

"They could have. They're the kings and queens of the nine hells. Asmodeus is a God, for crying out loud. They could tear open every cell a tiefling is rotting in, right now, and let them free. They could heal every wound one of us has ever taken. Fuck, if they really wanted to, they could give us a homeland- a real one, one we wouldn't have to share. But they don't. They let us get arrested for Walking While Tiefling and get beaten to death by jumped up thugs in Ducal armour every day of the week."

 

He was panting, he realised suddenly. He must have been shouting. Shedim was giving him a look he couldn't understand. Subtlety turned away from her and went to the cupboards. Absent had filled them before leaving. At least they wouldn't starve.

"That's not what the names are for," said Shedim, quietly. He tried not to snarl.

"I don't care, Shed-"

"It's not," she said, insistently. "You're right, they don't- don't care about us. I can't argue that. But they're how we started."

"And what a wonderful accident that was."

"Yes. Exactly."

 

He turned to look at her. "I was being sarcastic."

"I wasn't. How many Tieflings have you met who fall in love?"

"...I don't- a few?"

"And Tiefling musicians? Scratch that, we both know the answer, a lot. How many songs have you heard written by a horn?"

"What's your point?"

"Food? Hmm? Tasted anything better than Helltown cooking?"

"I- yes."

"How much better? I can keep doing this. Art of all kinds, dance, _culture_ , Abaddon. That's what we made. In vast swathes. Those noble girls you cat about with, how many of them wanted you to sing them a Helltown song? Hmm?"

 

He looked away. Shedim nodded, as if he'd agreed.

"Exactly. You're right, we may not have the most impressive beginnings in history, but wow have we managed to turn that around. We took what we used to be and... I mean, alchemy. That's the only word. Genuine cultural alchemy. THAT is why we wear these names. I'm not ashamed of my heritage. I'm proud of it. It proves what I can do. What _we_ can do. And have done."

 

He growled, but didn't answer. After a moment of silence, she spoke again.

"Anyway. You said you'd tell me why Subtlety."

"Still on this?"

"What else is there to do?"

"I am not-"

"You promised."

"Oh, what are you, twelve? It's just words."

"No it's not. And you don't think that either. I know you."

 

 _You haven't known me in a very long time,_ he thought. The words had lined up behind his teeth, all ready to go. But he didn't say them. It would be too easy, honestly- too easy, and too cruel. Him and Shedim were talking again. He was enjoying that, even given the circumstances.

"Fine," he said instead, as his anger started to cool. "It's not worth all this build up."

"Feel free to let me down, then."

"I picked Subtlety because I thought it sounded pretty. And because if I was going to be a lawyer, then it would be hard to beat being a lawyer whose name was Subtlety."

She gave a little laugh at that.

"...Yes. Yes, I could see that."

 

"Well, isn't this heartwarming," said Absent blandly. Subtlety turned and threw a knife at him, more out of habit than anything else.

"Thought we agreed you weren't going to do that anymore," said the bigger Tiefling, now behind him.

"Oh, don't pretend that would have hurt you," said Subtlety irritably.

"Point."

"Where are Belial and Lamashtu?" Shedim was half-struggling on the loom, her glare burning holes in Absent's neck. "You bastard, what did you do to them?"

"Glad you asked. I have a letter," said Absent, pulling a thin scroll from out of his jacket. "I'd give it to you, but- well. Subtlety, if you don't mind?"

 

Subtlety took the scroll and brought it to Shedim. They read it together.

_Dear mum,_

_We are stayng with a man called Wilgan. He lives outside Gresit on a farm. He said to tell you he is a half-orc, and does not hold with rudeness. He is very nice. Yetserdat yesterday we fed his chickens. He is teaching Belial how to do more farm work because it is nice to be outside. I told him you were teaching me to weave, so he showed me his mum's loom and let me work there. When I was done, he said it was very fine and you must be a good weaver and I said yes, the best in Helltown and he said wow._

_I like it here. WIll you come visit soon?_

_Tell uncle Abaddon we love him too and want him to come visit and tell some of his funny stories to mister Wilgan._

_Love, Lamashtu._

Shedim was crying silently as they finished. Subtlety politely ignored it; they weren't the sort of family that did that sort of thing well.

"See? No ulterior motives. They're safe. And so are you, let me point out. Neither of you are hurt."

Subtlety gave him a sidelong glance.

"No, just locked inside a house in a city you are destabilising by the day."

"That counts as safe!" Said Absent, with every sign of sincerity.

  
"Why are you doing this?" asked Shedim. She'd managed to stem her tears.

"Because it needs doing. Let's be honest, this... entire city, it's a bit set in its ways. And also its ways are evil, in many respects. It needs shaking up. And the only way that happens is if the Duke dies screaming and his city goes insane."

"Horns are dying," she said desperately. Absent nodded.

"Oh Gods yes. As are humans. Half orcs. Half elves. Elves- not many of them, let's be honest, they tend not to come to this sort of city, but a few. Dwarves, lots of them. A few Draconians. Some dying, some surviving."

"That's not- we're your people!"

"Yes," said Absent, very seriously. He leaned forwards. "Yes you are. The oppressed, the downtrodden, the tortured masses yearning to be free. Well. This is how you get free. It costs blood. It costs chaos."

 

"Can we not have this argument again?" asked Subtlety. He'd heard variations on this conversation a dozen times, now. He hadn't much enjoyed it the first time. Absent shrugged.

"Fair enough. I have a little news, if that interests you."

"Anything to break up the monotony."

"Someone's looking for you."

 

Subtlety fought down a glare. "By someone, do you mean every Copper Badge not working to keep the riots down?"

"Someone new. Someone outside the city." The big Tiefling gave him a piercing look. "Someone who has spies. Or more at least can pay spies to ask questions for him."

Subtlety gave him a blank look. "...Okay."

"Why are they looking for you?"

"I don't know."

 

Absent stared at him for a moment too long to be comfortable. Then a grin like the sun coming up took over his face.

"Fair enough! Just thought I'd ask. Now. Must dash- work to do!"

And he was gone, like he'd never been there.


	28. Verist

** CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT **

** VERIST **

Verist tried, by and large, not to be judgemental about cities. People, not so much- they tended to be simple enough, and with the right training you could usually work out who and what they'd do in any given circumstance from a few conversations. But cities... cities were networks. They were made of history and economics and memories, government policies shaping streets, criminals sending the flow of drugs and whores and gambling back and forth through barren slum lands and rich neighbourhoods, fashion and practicality warring over every outfit- not so much places as huge accumulations of humanity in its every form. Trying to judge a city without knowing it, _really_ knowing it, being part of it, was the kind of folly his old handlers killed over.

 

But with all that said, he was still rapidly coming to an unpleasant conclusion.

He fucking _hated_ Stillben.

 

It wasn't a fair analysis. He knew that. Part of it was residual anger for that... stupid blow up with Ruth before they'd left. She hadn't even been wrong, was the worst part; putting them on the back foot was good tactics, but it wouldn't finish this thing and he knew it. Guarding the planetouched made sense.

He just wasn't used to taking orders. Hadn't been for a long time, if he was honest; too long as a detective, free to do as he wished, solve cases however he liked. Now there was a chain of command, again. It shouldn't chafe, but it did.

 

Still. Even with that in mind, Stillben could take a running jump, it really could. Everything about the place just read badly; a swamp town grown into a city through Wildemount trade, where the corruption was too banal to be dangerous and the decent, the honourable, were too choked by their own judgemental bullshit to do anything about it. Even the gang war running under its surface, Myriad and Clasp locked in a decades old battle, felt stale and pointless.

 _Maybe I should just let the cult run riot for a while_ , he thought drily. _Might liven the place up a bit._

 

The tavern he was waiting in was a perfect example of Stillben; a jumped up alehouse-turned-inn that had swallowed up the Wildemount coin flowing through the city and turned itself into what (to its mind) was a palace of luxury. That said luxury mainly consisted of nice chairs, soft beds, and a deal with the bordello next door went without saying. But in Stillben, it was one in a million. Places like this dotted the city like blackheads on a teenager. That gave it a certain anonymity that he could use right now.

Especially with this particular contact.

 

When they'd settled into their digs first, Lapis and Rhully had tried their best to grill him on who he actually was. How he'd gotten here, what he'd done, who he was. He'd waved them off easy enough. They were good soldiers, and Rhully had a mind like a corkscrew, but he'd been having conversations like this for most of his adult life.

"I'm just a detective," he'd said, to one particularly bald faced question. "I have a lot of friends, that's all."

In some ways it wasn't even a lie. The man he was there to meet was, in fact, a friend. Or at least he had been, once.

 

"They say Vox Machina started here," came an old, weathered voice, roughed up by years of alcohol and cigarettes. A drunk's voice coming out of a drunk's face. "You imagine that? Saviours of the world, on our streets." He pushed a heavy mug of ale in front of Verist, and set another down in front of himself.

"I wonder if they ever drank in Fulger street," said Verist.

"Or had coffee on Tuniver Way."

 

Sign. Countersign. Confirmation. The drunk sipped his ale and eyed Verist beadily. "Been a while."

"You're looking well."

"I'm looking like shit, is what I'm looking like. It's the wind off the swamps. Ruins your skin."

"All the ale's just to keep your healthy glow, then?"

"Fuck off, Anveshak."

Verist smiled thinly. "Master of Information still paying?"

"I am a good council boy," said the drunk. "Unlike some I could mention."

Ah. This. Already. "Do we have to do this now?"

"Not doing anything. How's freelance life working out for you?"

"Fine," said Verist, wearily. "I'm not-"

"Detective work okay? All those marriages you're snooping on, must be very soothing."

"It's work. Decent work that needed doing."

"Ah, but what we do for the council, that's just something you can leave off, then, is it?"

 

"How long are you planning on doing this?"

"Don't know what you-"

"Because if you didn't want to talk to me, you could have ignored the dead drop."

 

The drunk sat forward. Something like rage flickered in his eyes. "Maybe I wanted to see you. Maybe I thought the man who walked away having the sheer brass balls to use council sign and countersign to make contact was the kind of thing I should see. To see if it was real, or if the drink's just rotted my brain. Maybe I couldn't believe you'd be so stupid as to try this."

There was a click under the table. A crossbow's string pulling back, caught on a trigger-catch. Verist raised an eyebrow.

"And maybe you decided now was the time to kill me? In broad daylight? In a public place?"

"Clasp-Myriad been doing it for years, I'd just have to dress it up," the old man growled.

"I see. Well, I'm sure I can't stop you. Go on."

"...What?"

"You seem to have made up your mind," said Verist, evenly. "Very certain that I have no information to trade, or pass back up the ladder. I mean, I'd argue your working out, but since you seem so committed..."

He let the sentence hang.

 

There was a long pause.

 

After a moment, he heard another click as the string was gently released back to resting position. The drunk put both hands on the table, and smiled. His teeth had taken a beating over the years.

"Oh, our Verist. Always was a clever boy."

"Thank you."

"Just a little joke, of course. My little joke. You remember that, I'm sure?"

"Sure," Verist lied. This wasn't how he'd seen this conversation going.

"Something to trade, then? I'm always interested in that."

"I thought you might be. A group has been operating in Stillben lately."

"Lots of groups operate in Stillben. There's money and a border."

"This one's new. It hasn't touched the clasp-myriad business. I'd bet hard cash it has something to do with the disappearance of Sir Ivan."

 

That put the drunk's ears up. "Does it, now..."

"I'm almost certain. They're behind a firebombing in Kymal and Emon, and a direct assault in Vasselheim. They're here. Now. I know that for a fact."

The Drunk gave him a considering look, drank his pint, and sat back. "Alright. Say I believe you."

"There'd be a lot of them," said Verist. "They'll have taken one of the shipping warehouses- probably an older one, given how they seem to spend their resources. May have been a woman amongst them, tall, slim, dark hair."

"I find them for you."

"Yes. And pass it up the chain."

"Thinking about Emon again?"

"Thinking about the world," said Verist.

 

The drunk finished his pint. "I'll see what I can do."

"Dead drop?"

"The Courthouse bar has a booth to the right. Check under the table tomorrow at eight."

 


	29. Sharla Ruth

** CHAPTER TWENTY NINE **

** SHARLA RUTH **

Ruth rubbed her temples through the mask and sighed. She knew this was going to be bullshit the minute she'd seen Gresit, but this took the cake. When she looked up again, the tiefling boy was giving her another disdainful look.

"Look," she said, trying to be as polite as she could manage, "I promise, I just want directions-"

"Who says this horn knows the way to Helltown?" snapped the kid, halfway teasing. "Ha? What, cuz I got horns, I'm a son?"

"I don't know what a son is," said Ruth, calmly.

"Boy child. You thick?"

"No, I knew that much, I just-"

"You IS thick, yeah? That why you on fire? No-one tell you to put it out?"

 

Ruth closed her eyes, counted to ten, and breathed out slowly. "No," she said, as calm descended. The boy was outright smirking at her now. "No, that's because I'm what's called a Genasi. It doesn't matter."

"I say it does," said the boy. Ruth took out her purse. That did it. She watched his eyes fix on it, magpie bright.

"I'll pay," said Ruth, calmly. "For directions. If you give them now."

"Should have started with that," said the boy. "Ten gold."

"Two silver," said Ruth. Dickering. This she knew. Every plane with a market had something like this.

"Silver? Burning girl, you rude."

"Directions aren't hard to get."

"They are from me."

"So I just walk away then, see if I-"

He sighed. "Okay. Okay. You a tourist. This is Gresit. For you, I be nice. Five gold."

"Five silver."

"Break my heart, you will!"

"Fine. Seven silver."

"Call it ten, I show you the way."

"Call it nine, five now, four later."

"Hmmm..." he looked her up and down. "Maybe you not so thick. Okay."

 

She dropped the coins into his hand and pocketed her wallet. The boy was off and running before she'd finished, but that's not a surprise- he's a street kid. Street kids push their luck. And Gresit, thank all the Gods that listen, is not Vasselheim. In a moment, she was a raven, and flying after him.

Her bodyguard- she couldn't remember his name- cursed, and went after her on foot. She should feel guilty about that, but things were going in her favour, and she would not waste that. Her wings beat hard against the cold dull air.

The boy had glanced back over his shoulder, seen the bodyguard, but not her. He took a hard left into a maze of back alleys and sidestreets. She followed, going from raven to starling for tighter curls and twists. The loud curses of the bodyguard withdrew, buried under the distance and the boy's laughter. Still he didn't see her. She pulled closer... closer...

 

The alleyways opened out. Bustling street. She beat her wings, became a raven, was up over the heads of the men-

The boy pulling ahead, moving through the crowd with the ease of long practice, like it wasn't there, like it was smoke in the wind, no more substantial to him-

-and he was almost home, she saw, beating her wings again, harder, drawing up tight besides him as he crossed the street and-

Came home, at last, to Helltown.

 

She flew hard over the boy's shoulder. He hissed a curse, skidding to a halt and battering about his head with his hands. Ruth gave up her wings and landed on her own feet, stumbling a little. She turned and gave the boy a wry look.

"You give directions very fast," she said. He stared at her, clearly on the verge of bolting. "Calm down. Here."

She tossed him four silver. He snatched them out of the air, stared at them, then back at her. "You crazy, burning girl."

"So I'm told. This is it, yes?"

"Yeah. This Helltown," said the boy, still staring at her. Then, after a minute, "you was a bird."

"Yes."

"You a shadewitch? For the burning people? Genasi?"

Ruth considered that for a moment. Then, slowly- sadly- "No. No, I'm not."

"Oh." He thought for a moment. Something about him seemed a little sad, suddenly. "Okay." And then he was gone, up into the winding streets.

 

The winding, packed streets. There were tieflings everywhere, here, in every shade and shape and size, all staring at her.

"Hi," she said, uncomfortably. Like it was a sign, they looked away and carried on their business. Ruth winced. This was clearly not going to be the easiest thing she'd ever done. She started towards the nearest person she could see- an old woman sat outside the doorway of one of the crooked houses.

"Excuse me," she said, gently. "I was wondering-"

"Piss off," the old woman growled. Ruth blinked.

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

 

"She won't answer you." Vivi. Ruth turned and glared. Vivi looked back, impassive as always.

"What the hells are you doing here?"

"Helping you."

"I left you at the inn! I told you to stay-"

"You did."

"Then why-"

"Your bodyguard, where is he?"

 

Ruth stopped. "I- had to leave him behind."

"Why?"

"He was too slow. I needed to... to move ahead quickly with the investigation."

Vivi nodded. "The guards at the inn were slowing me down, too. They would not let me leave. How could I help then?"

"You don't need to help," said Ruth, heart sinking. "I have this in hand-"

"No, you don't."

"I do."

"The tiefling woman told you to piss off."

"You too, girlie," growled the old woman.

"She will not help you. None of them will. This is not what in hand means."

 

Ruth changed tack. "Perhaps, but you're- you're very important, Vivi. You need to be safe for-"

"I know. So do you."

"...that's different-"

"Is there another genasi that knows the ritual?" asked Vivi. Ruth stopped. The Aasimar nodded. "Exactly."

"What ritual?" asked the old woman, glaring at them.

"It's not- I'm sorry, I just need to ask about your-"

"Piss off!"

"...of course."

 

"They're afraid," said Vivi. "All of them. And angry."

"Yes, I know. The riots-"

"More than just that. The Duke's guards- they call them copper badges here- they're behaving wrong."

"...What do you mean, wrong?"

"Tactically unwise, poorly managed. There were several disappearances-"

 

It was at this point that the old woman went mad. "Off," she snarled, standing suddenly and brandishing her chair at them. "Off with you! Away with all your talk and your- OFF!" She swung the chair.

Ruth stepped back hurriedly. "Ma'am, I promise-"

But it was too late. She had stepped inside and slammed the door. There was the click of a door locking behind her.

  
"-several disappearances," said Vivi, as if nothing had happened, "of high level Duke's Guard. As of yet, they haven't been missing long, but with the trial of Subtlety Emberdark, it looks unlikely they'll be found alive. The Copper Badges are handling this by raiding Helltown, and raiding it often. Many tieflings have been hurt."

"...Gods."

"Yes. That is why they won't talk to you. They won't talk to anyone. They can't trust them. Also-"

 

There was a crash of glass. Ruth flinched, turned. She half expected to see a tiefling readying to throw another one, but no.

Men. Dozens of men, humans mainly, all massed at the edge of Helltown. They had the swagger of the drunk and hateful. It was only now Ruth realised the street was empty.

"-Also the locals have been forming mobs," said Vivi quietly. "These mobs have attacked Helltown several times. And unlike the Copper Badges, they are willing to kill tieflings in the street instead of taking them for questioning and execution."

"Right, this is the kind of information I'd rather have known in advance, Vivi," said Ruth, stepping slowly backwards.

"I'm sorry. I had only just found out."

 

"Devil lover," said one of the mob, sneering at her.

"Sir," said Ruth- but she knew there was no point. There was a way this would go. One she understood already. He wasn't looking to talk, or understand. He just wanted to hurt something. He'd come here for tieflings, but two women in the tiefling part of town? They'd do just fine.

She couldn't talk him down. And she couldn't escape, not with Vivi next to her. Her only option, therefore...

"The Copper Badges- how likely are they to respond to a fight in Helltown?"

"Distinctly unlikely," said Vivi, loosening her swords in their scabbards.

"Good."

...was to fight.

 

Ruth lunged.

It was so easy, she marveled, as the world turned to glass and crystal clockwork, to forget who she was. Who she really was. Not a leader. Not an investigator. Not even a mother. No, at her core, Sharla Ruth was an Explorator- a wanderer and explorer. She'd walked the bazaars of the City of Brass, played cards in a Sigil gambling hall, fought demons and devils in Hades and watched Angels fly over Mount Celestia.

One did not go as far as she had, or see as much as she did, without learning how to fight.

 

She didn't shift to start with. They hadn't seen that, and she'd need for later; trump card. But she did land a neat and charmingly brutal kick between his legs. She watched his face pale with shock. Oh yes. She enjoyed that expression.

"No kills," she snarled. The sound of swords singing loose from scabbards didn't stop. She'd have to pray Vivi had heard her- or that she'd listen. No time to think about that now. Headbutt. The man staggered back. They had seconds before the rest of the mob stopped staring. This had to be won quickly.

 _Now_ she shifted. A second later, Ruth was an adult black bear, roaring a challenge. She lashed out a single massive paw, and sent one of them hurtling through the air, landing against a back wall with a dull thud. And Vivi was amongst them, now, dancing almost, long and short sword flickering out, cutting away hands and feet.

 _No kills,_ thought Ruth wryly. She should have been clearer.

But it didn't matter now. Under the weight of their assault, the men were breaking. This was not what they'd been promised. This was supposed to be a rout, beating the stupid devils, showing them their place. No one said anything about fighting back!

She roared again. Tilted back her head.

 

It was easy to forget what Genasi were. To see the little signs and traces of the elements and think that's all there was.

Ruth roared again. That primal flame opened itself in her chest. A great plume of fire rolled out over the heads of the mob. At last, they broke and ran, back the way they had come. The wounded dragged themselves to their feet, clutching their wounds, and fled after them, wailing as they went.

 

Ruth took her own shape again. She felt better, if she was honest. Much better. That wasn't something she was proud of, but still- at least she'd been justified this time. Vivi was sheathing her swords behind her.

"Hey."

Ruth turned. The door was open again. She could see the old woman watching them, and with her a taller, younger tiefling man.

"Won't be good to be on the streets after that," said the man. "Come in."

\---

 

It was three hours later. The man (he hadn't given his name, or his companion's,) had been right. Less than an hour after the fight, Copper Badges had swept the place. They'd hidden under the floorboards and waited. This time, no-one had been rounded up.

( _"No sir, saw no bear."_

_"You better not lie, devil."_

_"No sir. No bear.")_

 

And then there had been a long, strange conversation with the old woman. She hadn't been less rude, exactly, but she had been more forthcoming. Subtlety Emberdark was a Helltown boy, yes, but he hadn't been seen around for a long time. As a boy, his name had been Abaddon- but he'd left to be a lawyer, and then later (when that had fallen through) he'd been a whore of some kind.

"Pretty bit of Helltown rough," the old lady had said, and spat. "Sent money back. Like that made it better, with his fancy name and his fancy clothes."

He had come back, it seemed, but no tiefling (or Horn, as they called themselves) would admit seeing him. And then news of the death of the Duke's daughter.

"Pin it on a horn, them pretty folks will buy it," said the Tiefling man. He'd watched the old lady's face as he said it, and she'd turned away from him, stared at the wall.

Since then, things had slowly descended into hell. Gresit was not a well-ordered city at the best of times. Now, it was teetering on the brink of collapse. Merchants had started to leave with their cargo unsold, for fear of losing more than their gold if they stayed. It had all the hallmarks of something terrible.

 

And yet...

 

"How long has it been like this?" Ruth asked, unable to keep the question in any longer.

The Tiefling man looked at her. "Since Horns had horns," he said.

"Don't go listening to him," said the old woman, fussing over dinner. She'd decided they were guests, and guests apparently were fed before anything else. "He don't know."

"She means I'm not a son," said the man, smiling a little.

"I heard that earlier, yes. What does that mean?"

"It's short for son of Helltown. I'm not from here."

"But-"

"But I know the stories, yes. Tieflings have been here as long as there _were_ tieflings. They weren't ever exactly popular. We're not far from the Palac Lusterka, though."

"The palace of the Daturai family," said Ruth.

"Yes. Still a lot of bad blood since then."

 

"We weren't nothing to do with them," said the old woman. She set down a plate on the table, with meat, cheese and bread, and poured out a little coffee. "The Daturai, they never came near Gresit. Old Duke chased 'em off when they got started. They stayed out there, with the farmers and the dirtpickers, never paid us no mind here in Helltown."

The man shrugged, conceding the point. "They make a good excuse for locals who don't like Horns," he said.

"Don't need no excuse," said the woman. "Here. Drink that."

"Thank you," said Vivi, very politely. She sipped at the coffee, and smiled. "It's very good."

"Is it," said the woman. "Good. That's good. I ain't had human visitors before."

"I am not human," said Vivi. "Nor Ruth."

 

Something lightened in the woman at that. Ruth wished she was surprised.

"I am happy to hear that," she said. "Don't like that sort in Helltown. What are you then?"

"Ruth is a Genasi. I am Aasimar."

"Aasimar? The angel folk?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, no. No ma'am. I'm Kipod. An Aasimar. Well. Never met one of you before."

"We are rare, I'm told."

"Well, yes. Yes you are. Well. Be welcome in my home, Vivi the Aasimar. And you as well, Ms. Genasi," she added.

 

Ruth nodded and smiled. Vivi seemed to have that effect on people, she really did.

"Not happy, are you," asked the man, quietly, looking at her. She shrugged.

"This... all this is... the way they treat you..."

"Suddenly the riots make sense, hmm?"

She shrugged again. "What... happened, there?" she asked.

He smiled. "Fair few of us got sick of being shat on. We started speaking out against the Duke-"

"You," said the old woman. "YOU started speaking out."

"Yeah, well. Word got back to the Copper Badges. They tried to make some arrests, but the people rose up. Stopped them. Drove them out of Helltown. Good moment for us, that one. Finally fighting back."

"And look where it got us. It's been bad before, I'll say that, but if you leave it alone, them Copper Badges, they calm down. This whole city would calm down if you young ones weren't always stirring everything up."

"Calm down and leave us eating shit," said the man, giving her a long look. "Like we always have. You happy about the way of things these days, Kipod? You full of joy about it?"

 

The old woman growled at him, but said nothing in response. She turned away. Ruth sighed.

"I'm sorry. We didn't mean to stir up trouble for you and your mother."

"Oh, she's not my mother. I just lodge here," said the man.

"Still. I'm sorry."

"It's the way of things," he said, shrugging, and offered her his hand to shake. "I'm Absent, by the way."

"Ruth," she said, and shook it.


End file.
